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OLIVER'S    KIND    WOMEN 


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Suddenly  a  hand  was  placed  upon  his  arm,  and  a  voice  said 
"  Oliver  I   .   .    .   Oliver  Luniley  I  " — p.  399. 


OLIVER'S  Kind  Women 


»>■ 


Philip  Gibbs 


Boston 
DANA  ESTES  &  CO. 


;aN-TA    3ARBARA.    QAJwIP".- 


All  Rights  Reservec 


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CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 

PAGE 

I. 
II. 

Rash  Youth          ». 

• 
Love  on  the  Common     

I 

12 

III. 

A  Man  of  Letters         

...       17 

IV. 

Father  and  Son  

...      23 

V. 

The  Touch  of  Chivalry         

...      29 

VI. 

The  Lady  Bountiful     

...       37 

VII. 

The  Price  of  a  Meal 

...      44 

VIII. 

Men  of  the  Empire       

...      48 

IX. 

The  Bohemians 

...       52 

X. 

A  Letter  to  a  Lady     

...       67 

XI. 

The  Old  Home     

...      71 

XII. 

Maids  and  Men 

...      76 

XIII. 

The  Generous  Heart 

...       84 

XIV. 

Humiliation  of  a  Young  Gentleman 

...        q2 

VI 


Contents 


CHAPTER 

XV. 

A  Lady  of  Quality 

XVI. 

Mental  Arithmetic 

XVII. 

The  House  in  Pont  Street         

XVIII. 

In  Disguise      

XIX. 

A  Pageant  of  History       

XX. 

An  Accusation          

XXI. 

The  Charity  of  Women 

XXII. 

Gay  Adventures       

XXIII. 

Deliberate  Insults 

XXIV. 

The  End  of  an  Idyll         

XXV. 

In  the  Enemy's  Camp         

XXVI. 

Sharp  Arrows          

XXVII. 

The  Fugitive 

XXVIIl. 

The  Threshold  of  Fate 

XXIX. 

Virginia  Garland 

XXX. 

A  Cockney  in  the  Woods 

XXXL 

Rural  Society          

XXXII. 

The  Garden  of  Peace        

XXXIII. 

The  Beggar-Man      

XXXIV 

The  Wonderful  News       

Contents 

vii 

CHAPTER 

PAGK 

XXXV. 

A  Warning 

...       296 

XXXVI. 

Husband  and  Wife           

...       302 

XXXVII. 

A  Country  Gentleman    

...       306 

XXXVIII. 

The  Unveiled  Soul          

...       311 

XXXIX. 

Poor  Relations      

...        321 

XL. 

The  Broken  Image            

...       327 

XLI. 

Haunting  Fear       

...       338 

XLII. 

The  Father  of  the  Girl 

...    345 

XLIII. 

The  Blackmailers 

...    348 

XLIV. 

The  Outcast           

...     355 

XLV. 

Philosophy  of  the  Old  School 

...     369 

XLVI. 

The  Bitter  Cup     

...    376 

XLVII. 

Nearing  the  End 

...    387 

XLVIII. 

The  Rescue 

...    397 

XLIX. 

Two  Women 

...    409 

L. 

The  Return ^ 

...    419 

OLIVER'S    KIND   WOMEN 


CHAPTER   I 

Rash    Touth 

MR.  OLIVER  LUMLEY  was  a  young  man 
of  promise.     He  had  good  looks  (in  the 
mid-Victorian    era    he  would    have   been 
called  "  Byronic  "),  good  health,  brains,  a  tempera- 
ment, an  ambition,  and  a  spirit  of  adventure. 

If  I  were  still  a  young  man  I  should  pray  the 
good  fairies  to  give  me  those  qualities.  With  these 
natural  gifts  the  world  seems  an  easy  thing  to  con- 
quer. With  such  an  outfit  a  young  man  of  twenty- 
three  (Oliver  Lumley  was  just  on  the  verge  of 
that)  should  travel  far  and  fare  well.  Good  looks 
and  a  gay  heart  are  master-keys  to  open  the  gates 
of  life.  For  a  handsome  young  man  with  a  fine 
clear-cut  face  and  lips  that  soften  quickly  to  a 
smile  may  be  shabbily  dressed,  ma}^  have  no  money 
to  jingle  in  his  pockets,  may  have  no  settled 
position  in  the  world,  but  women  will  turn  their 
heads  his  way  and  speak  a  word  for  him  in  good 
places,  and  grant  a  request  which  from  a  plain 
fellow,  or  from  a  man  not  ugly  enough  to  be  in- 
teresting, would  be  flouted.  Therefore  the  first  gate- 
I 


2  Oliver's  Kind  Women 

way  on  the  path  to  progress  is  unlocked  to  him,  for 
women  guard  many  doors  of  the  world's  treasure- 
houses,  and  as  the  old  saying  is,  kissing  goes  by 
favour.  So  young  Mr.  Oliver  Lumley  had  unusual 
chances,  for  that  he  was  a  handsome  lad  few  men 
denied,  and  no  woman. 

I  have  said  that  he  had  ambition,  temperament, 
and  a  spirit  of  adventure.  By  ambition  I  do  not 
mean  that  he  aspired  to  be  a  millionaire  or  a  Prime 
Minister.  In  spite  of  youth  he  had  set  himself 
limits,  and  they  were  well  within  the  bounds  of 
moderation.  In  the  Wastrel  Club  (of  Greek  Street, 
Soho),  where  once  a  week  he  sat  with  a  few  of  his 
kindred  spirits,  he  said  more  than  once,  through 
a  haze  of  tobacco  smoke,  "  My  friends,  I  intend 
to  be  satisfied  with  ;^i,500  a  year.  I  should  loathe 
to  be  really  rich.  It  smothers  one's  idealism.  One 
becomes  a  slave  in  gilded  chains." 

At  this  time  he  was  earning,  irregularly,  and 
with  luck,  about  sixty  shillings  a  week.  His  friends 
praised  his  moderation.  Happening  one  night  to 
be  two  gentlemen  who  had  just  been  called  to  the 
Bar,  they  had  their  eyes  on  a  future  in  which  it 
would  be  easy  enough  to  pick  up  a  good  many 
thousands  a  year,  with  a  judgeship  or  an  Attorney- 
generalship  as  a  quiet  and  remunerative  rest-cure 
after  they  had  borne  the  heat  and  burden  of  the 
day. 

"  Roly,"  said  one  of  these  newly  called  barristers, 
trying  to  find  the  way  to  his  o\\4n  mouth  with  the 


Rash  Youth  3 

stem  of  a  churchwarden  pipe  (churchwardens  were 
traditional  in  the  Wastrels),  and  nearly  putting 
out  his  left  eye,  with  which  he  regarded  his  friend 
solemnly,  while  his  other  was  half  closed,  "  Roly, 
my  boy,  I  think  you  are  making  a  rotten,  silly 
mistake  with  yourself,  if  I  may  say  so  as  man  to 
man.  Forgive  me,  dear  old  chap,  but  why  not 
abandon  the  flighty  ways  of  that  fickle  jade — er — 
the  Muse  of  Literature — what  the  deuce  did  she 
call  herself? — and  go  in  for  the  Law?  The  Law, 
old  friend  !  Mighty  fat  in  good  things  !  Plenty 
of  pickings,  especially  for  a  man  of  presence ! 
You've  got  presence,  Roly.  Good-looking  young 
buck,  don't  you  know !  All  right  with  a  wig  on 
your  noddle." 

Oliver  Lumley  laughed,  and  traced  his  initials 
with  the  stem  of  a  broken  churchwarden  in  a 
puddle  of  whisky  on  the  deal  table  (deal  tables 
were  also  part  of  the  tradition  at  the  Wastrels). 

"The  Law?  No,  thanks,  old  fellow.  I'm  a  Man 
of  Letters.     I've  got  a  temperament." 

It  was  perfectly  true  that  he  had  a  temperament. 
It  is  the  story  of  that  temperament  which  this 
book  will  endeavour  to  set  down.  I  have  not  a 
very  clear  idea  as  to  the  meaning  of  the  word — 
it  is  sometimes  used  by  those  who  dislike  the 
drudgery  of  life  ;  but  if  it  means  a  character  not 
to  be  fastened  down  to  squalid  duties  and  hum- 
drum tasks,  Oliver  Lumley  had  got  it. 

How  and  why  are   puzzles   to   me.      By  what 


4  Oliver's   Kind   Women 

strange  throw-back  of  heredity,  by  what  psycho- 
logical or  physiological  conditions  a  child  with  a 
temperament  had  been  born  to  a  City  clerk  mated 
to  a  woman  who  was  the  sixth  daughter  of  a 
Nonconformist  minister  in  Peckham,  is  one  of 
those  problems  which  cry  out  for  the  scientist. 
A  mere  literary  man  is  unable  to  form  even  a 
guess.  But  the  fact  was  there  in  Oliver  Lumley, 
second  son  of  Richard  Lumley,  of  Cutter  & 
Bodger,  Mincing  Lane,  E.C.,  and  of  33,  Rosemary 
Avenue,  Denmark  Hill,  S.E. 

Horace,  the  eldest  son,  had  no  temperament 
whatever.  At  the  Camberwell  Grammar  School 
he  was  the  model  boy,  on  conventional  lines ;  at 
the  age  of  eighteen  he  had  been  appointed  the 
juniorest  junior  in  the  Comet  Assurance  Company; 
at  the  age  of  twenty-six  he  was  getting  the  respect- 
able salary  of  £go  per  annum,  and  was  a  good, 
quiet,  steady  fellow,  fond  of  reading  during  the 
evenings  at  home,  devoted,  in  his  unemotional, 
reserved  waj^,  to  his  mother  and  father,  and  with 
a  soft  corner  in  his  heart  for  his  sister,  Galatea, 
who  was  a  typist  in  a  City  office.  Horace  had 
always  admired  Oliver,  for  the  very  qualities  which 
he  himself  lacked,  and  especially  for  his  spirit  of 
adventure  ;  but  though  they  had  been  bedfellows 
for  almost  twenty  years,  he  did  not  understand  the 
brother  whom  he  loved. 

For  Oliver  had  baffled  all  his  people  at  home. 
Richard  Lumley,  the  father,  had  year  after  year 


Rash  Youth  5 

studied  the  annual  reports  brought  home  by  his 
boys  from  school,  and  always  an  anxious  look 
had  crept  into  his  grey  eyes.  Horace  was  nearly 
always  top  of  his  class,  Oliver  nearly  always  at 
the  bottom.  "  Very  bad  at  arithmetic  "  ;  "  Ex- 
tremely negligent  of  his  home-lessons  "  ;  "  Utterly 
unmethodical";  "High-spirited,  but  headstrong," 
were  phrases  familiar  to  an  anxious  father. 

"  My  dear,"  said  Richard  Lumley  to  his  wife, 
year  after  year,  when  these  reports  were  brought 
home,  "  what  shall  we  do  with  Oliver  ?  Horace 
never  gives  me  a  moment's  anxiety.  He  will 
be  a  comfort  to  us  in  our  old  age.  But  Oliver — 
he  is  very  wild,  very  unsteady.  I  fear  the  poor 
boy  will  find  it  hard  to  settle  down  into  the  collar 
of  life." 

"  I  wish  there  were  no  collar,"  said  Mrs.  Lumley, 
during  one  of  these  quiet  talks  between  husband 
and  wife.  She  put  down  the  stocking  she  was 
knitting,  and  stared  down  at  the  red  tablecloth, 
on  which  many  blots  of  ink  had  been  spilt.  "  Why 
should  my  dear,  high-spirited  boy  be  put  into  the 
collar  ?  Why  should  he  have  the  spirit  crushed 
out  of  him  by  the  awful  drudgery  of  office 
work  ?  " 

She  spoke  quietly,  but  there  was  a  queer  vibra- 
tion in  her  voice. 

Richard  Lumley  lifted  his  eyes  from  his  book. 
He  was  reading  "  The  Mill  on  the  Floss,"  for  the 
sixth  time. 


6  Oliver's   Kind  Women 

"  Duty,  darling,"  he  said.  "  England  expects — 
you  know  the  rest." 

"  Duty!  "  said  Mrs.  Lumley.  Her  cheeks  flushed, 
and  the  colour  gave  to  her  worn  face  a  trace  of 
that  charm  which  had  suggested  her  title  of  "  The 
Rose  of  the  Rye,"  to  a  descriptive  reporter  at  the 
Peckham  bazaar  in  aid  of  her  father's  chapel, 
twenty  years  ago. 

"  I  hate  that  word.  It  is  so  cruel.  It  has  made 
slaves  of  you  and  me.  It  is  always  duty,  duty, 
from  morning  till  night.  And  then  the  children 
grow  up,  and  they  too  will  have  to  do  their  duty. 
Gradually  they  will  lose  all  their  freshness — Horace 
is  already  so  pale  that  he  frightens  me  ;  they  will 
come  home  tired  after  a  long  day  in  a  stuffy  office, 
and  they  will  become  like  you,  Dick,  not  a  man, 
but — a  City  clerk.  Oh,  that  City  !  I  hope  to  God 
Oliver  will  escape  it !     It  is  deadening  !  " 

Richard  Lumley  had  laid  down  his  book,  seeing 
that  the  bookmarker  was  in  its  place.  He  was 
staring  at  his  wife,  with  a  startled  look  on  his 
face.  At  her  last  words  a  wave  of  colour  mounted 
from  his  thin  neck,  with  its  rather  prominent 
Adam's  apple,  to  the  forehead,  made  high  by  the 
hair  having  worn  away  in  front.  His  thin  lips 
tightened,  the  nostrils  quivered.  Into  the  grey 
eyes,  which  ordinarily  gazed  out  upon  the  world 
with  mild  tranquillity,  there  crept  a  glint  of  anger. 

"  Alice,  your  words  have  hurt.  Am  I  not  a  man  ? 
Have  I  been  deadened?" 


Rash  Youth  7 

His  wife  put  a  hand  across  the  table  and  stroked 
one  of  his. 

"  I  did  not  mean  that.  But  I  mean  that  Oliver 
is  too  full  of  life  and  restlessness  to  be  tamed  into 
a  City  clerk." 

Unintentionally  she  had  made  her  words  more 
stinging  by  that  "  tamed,"  and  her  husband  winced 
as  though  she  had  pricked  him  with  one  of  her 
needles.  He  opened  his  book  and  pretended  to  go 
on  with  his  reading. 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  I  have  been  '  tamed.'  But  it 
has  been  in  the  service  of  my  wife  and  children. 
.  .  .  And  the  reward  ?  Your  boy  Oliver  has  all 
your  heart,  and  I  have  none  of  it." 

That  was  a  reproach  he  had  made  several  times, 
and  in  later  years  Mrs.  Lumley  became  familiar 
with  it.  A  husband  must  always  have  one  stand- 
ing grievance  for  use  in  defence  and  attack.  There 
was  truth  in  it  too,  which  made  it  more  effective  ; 
for  though  Mrs.  Lumley  was  patient  with  a  rather 
querulous  husband,  and  devoted  to  Horace  and 
Galatea,  it  was  for  Oliver  that  she  put  by  little 
savings  stinted  from  the  housekeeping  money  ;  it 
was  Oliver  who  with  a  kiss  and  a  hug  could  be- 
witch her  into  giving  consent  after  any  denial ;  it 
was  Oliver,  rising  year  by  year  into  a  tall  lad  with 
wavy  black  hair  and  the  fine  profile  of  a  Greek 
statue,  who  was  nearly  always  in  her  thoughts, 
always  in  her  prayers,  and  often  in  her  dreams. 
She  had  told  the  only  lies  of  her  life  to  save  him 


8  Oliver's   Kind  Women 

from  scrapes  in  and  out  of  school  and  from  his 
father's  eloquence  of  reproach.  Once  she  had  sold 
a  few  of  her  little  trinkets  (without  Richard's  know- 
ledge and  consent)  to  pay  some  debts  incurred  by 
Oliver  at  a  confectioner's  shop  in  Denmark  Hill. 
The  young  rogue  at  sixteen  years  of  age  had 
bewitched  the  girl  across  the  counter,  who  had  let 
him  go  tick  until  the  old  lady  who  kept  the  shop 
demanded  instant  settlement  of  the  account.  Mrs. 
Lumley  had  wept  over  that  episode  in  Oliver's 
career,  for  she  could  not  square  it  with  her  own 
principles  of  morality. 

"  Oliver,  my  dearest  boy,  debt  is  the  devil's  trap. 
Your  father  and  I  have  never  owed  a  penny  in  the 
world.  Promise  me  you  will  never  get  into  debt 
again." 

He  promised,  on  his  solemn  word  of  honour, 
and  then  gave  an  entertaining  account  of  old 
Mrs.  Tufton  when  she  threatened  "to  tell  his  poor 
ma  of  all  his  carryings  on." 

Mrs.  Lumley  laughed  in  spite  of  her  sorrow  at 
his  sinfulness — "you  know  it  was  really  wicked  of 
you,  Oliver,"  she  said — and,  in  return  for  his  pledge 
of  honour  never,  never  to  get  into  debt  again,  she 
readily  gave  a  promise  when  the  boy  said,  "  Look 
here,  mother  mine,  don't  you  let  on  to  the 
governor."  For  the  truth  was  that  the  one  man 
in  the  world  of  whom  Oliver  Lumley  had  a  little 
fear  was  his  father,  whose  principles  on  Duty  and 
Honour   were   as   fixed   as   the   Pole   star,  whose 


Rash  Youth  9 

mild  eyes  could  look  unutterable  reproach,  and 
who  had  constant  suspicion  of  his  second  son's 
innate  wildness  and  wantonness. 

That  suspicion  was  confirmed  when  at  twenty 
years  of  age  Oliver,  who  had  spent  two  miserable, 
restless,  and  irritable  years  in  a  solicitor's  office, 
came  home  one  night  with  the  news  that  he  had 
got  "the  sack." 

"  And  a  jolly  good  job  too,  for  I  would  rather 
starve  to  death  than  put  up  with  such  hideous 
slavery." 

That  was  how  he  took  his  dismissal ;  and,  as 
though  a  great  burden  had  been  lifted  from  his 
shoulders,  he  was  in  a  prankish  mood  that  night — 
gibed  at  Horace  as  a  solemn  old  dog  who  was 
destined  to  live  and  die  a  bachelor,  shocked  his 
father,  mother,  and  sister  by  discoursing  rather 
wildly  upon  liberty  and  love,  and  at  an  early  hour 
went  whistling  to  his  room,  where  he  read  in  bed 
till  midnight.  Then  his  mother,  who  had  been 
lying  still  in  her  own  bed  listening  for  his  footsteps 
to  cross  the  floor  on  his  way  to  the  gas-bracket, 
came  out  of  her  room  and  tapped  at  his  door. 

"  Fut  out  your  light,  my  dear  boy.  It  is  time 
you  went  to  sleep.  And  it  is  such  a  waste  of 
gas!" 

He  called  her  :  "  Mother  mine  !  " 

She  opened  the  door  in  her  blue  dressing-gown, 
and  stood  by  his  bedside  looking  down  at  him  as 
he  sat  up  with  his  head  propped  against  a  pillow 


lo        Oliver's   Kind  Women 

and  a  book  on  his  knees,  and  a  pipe  on  a  little 
table  by  his  side. 

"It  is  so  dangerous  to  smoke  in  bed !  You  know 
how  father  dislikes  it." 

"  The  governor  dislikes  such  a  lot  of  things  I 
love." 

He  held  his  arms  out  to  his  mother,  and  she 
bent  down  and  kissed  him  on  the  forehead.  She 
marvelled  at  the  splendour  of  his  beauty  as  he  lay 
there  with  the  collar  of  his  night-shirt  open  at  the 
throat  and  with  his  wavy  black  hair  against  the 
white  pillow. 

"  I'm  as  chirpy  as  a  cricket  to-night.  No  more 
City  slush  for  me,  mother  !  " 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do,  Oliver  ?  Your 
father  cannot  afford  to  keep  you.  We  are  miser- 
ably poor.     Your  earnings  were  a  help.  .  .  ." 

"  That's  all  right.  I'm  going  to  earn  pots  of 
money.  You'll  be  driving  in  your  own  motor 
before  you  know  where  you  are." 

She  half  believed  him,  and  was  half  afraid. 

"  Nothing  rash,  Oliver,  I  hope  ?  " 

"  Rash  ?  "  he  chuckled.  "  Perhaps.  Anyhow, 
I'm  going  to  have  a  shot  at  literature." 

She  did  not  understand  him.  Literature  was  a 
vague,  meaningless  word  to  her  as  a  method  of 
making  money. 

"  Tell  me  about  it,"  she  said,  and  he  laughed  and 
told  her  to  put  out  the  light. 

"  Go    away    and    sleep,   little   mother,   while    I 


Rash  Youth  ii 

think  out  my  plans.  I'm  going  to  make  the 
family  fortune.  Isn't  that  good  enough  for  your 
dreams  ?  " 

He  called  her  back  as  she  went  over  to  the  gas- 
bracket. 

"  Mother,  do  you  know  how  beautiful  you 
are  ? " 

"  Oliver,  what  nonsense  !  " 

She  blushed  like  a  girl  who  has  been  flattered 
by  her  sweetheart. 

"  Honour  bright !  " 

She  put  out  the  light,  and  he  heard  her  blow 
a  kiss  to  him  in  the  darkness  and  creep  out  of  the 
room. 

"  I'd  like  to  make  a  success,  for  her  sake,"  said 
Oliver  Lumley  aloud  in  the  darkness.  Then  he 
snuggled  down  in  bed  and  slept  immediately. 


CHAPTER    II 

Love  on  the  Common 

Oliver's  success  did  not  come  quickly.  He  spent 
a  year  at  home,  borrowing  his  brother's  trousers 
when  his  own  became  too  frayed  at  the  edges  and 
too  baggy  at  the  knees,  getting  sixpence  a  day 
from  his  mother  to  buy  tobacco,  with  an  occasional 
half-crown  from  Horace  for  an  evening  at  the 
theatre,  and  now  and  again  receiving  a  sovereign 
from  his  father,  which,  in  Oliver's  own  phrase,  came 
in  "  devilish  handy." 

His  father  became  gloomy  and  despondent  at 
the  sight  of  his  son  at  home.  There  were  times 
when  they  quarrelled  with  hot  words  because 
Oliver  refused  obstinately  to  answer  advertisements 
for  junior  clerkships,  which  his  father  cut  out  of 
the  morning  papers  and  gave  him  in  the  evening. 
Horace  had  pessimistic  moods,  when  he  told  Oliver 
with  brotherly  candour  that  he  was  a  lazy  young 
devil  and  would  inevitably  go  to  the  dogs.  Galatea 
jibed  at  him  continually  as  a  ne'er-do-weel,  and 
even  his  mother  gazed  at  him  with  anxious  eyes 
and  asked  him  once  a  month  whether  he  was  right 
to  go  on  like  this. 

"  Quite  right,"  said   Oliver   cheerfully.      "  Don't 


Love  on   the   Common       13 

you  worry,  and  all  will  be  well.  Am  /  worry- 
ing?" 

He  was  not.  He.  kept  up  his  spirits  amazingly 
well,  though  occasionally  he  had  moments  of 
passion,  when  he  reproached  his  family  for  their 
lack  of  faith  in  such  wild  and  whirling  words  that 
his  mother  went  white  to  the  lips  and  Galatea 
crimsoned  to  the  tips  of  her  ears. 

All  this  time  Oliver  was  in  training  for  the  sub- 
lime career  of  a  Man  of  Letters.  His  studies  were 
made  chiefly  in  the  Public  Library,  where  he  read 
through  an  immense  number  of  short  stories  in  the 
magazines,  and  observed  human  nature  as  exhibited 
by  the  young  ladies  sitting  at  the  tables.  Some 
of  them  were  distinctly  pretty,  and  some  of  them, 
by  a  remarkable  coincidence,  always  met  his  eyes 
when  he  glanced  their  way.  This  in  more  than 
one  case  led  to  acquaintanceship  outside  the 
Library  and  to  some  charming  adventures  in 
gallantry  which  were  useful  to  Oliver  Lumley  as 
a  future  novelist. 

There  was  one  girl,  a  Mignonette  of  France, 
whom  he  met  by  appointment  on  Clapham  Com- 
mon when  she  had  a  half-holiday  from  the  High 
School  (where  she  taught  French  to  shopkeepers' 
daughters  in  return  for  her  "  keep ")  twice  a 
week. 

He  kissed  her  one  day  under  the  shelter  of  an 
oak-tree  not  far  from  the  Round  Pond.  After 
that   they   corresponded    daily — his    letters   being 


14        Oliver's  Kind   Women 

addressed  to  a  sweetstuff  shop  in  the  Old  Town. 
She  wrote  continually  and  poured  out  her  little 
palpitating  heart  to  him,  and  he  slept  with  her 
letters  under  his  pillow.  To  her  he  wrote  many 
brilliant  essays  on  the  great  problems  of  life  and 
the  human  heart — making  a  fair  copy  of  them  for 
future  use,  as  some  of  his  phrases  were  too  good 
to  be  lost. 

The  idyll  with  Gabrielle  le  Brun  ended  as  it 
had  begun,  under  the  oak-tree  by  the  Round 
Pond. 

"  Oliver,  cher  ami,  I  am  come  to  say  good-bye. 
It  is  not  right  that  I  should  meet  you  any  longer 
like  this.  In  a  week  I  marry  myself  to  Mr.  Tipping 
the  music- master,  of  whom  I  tell  you  often.  We 
set  up  house  together  quite  soon,  when  he  gets — 
what  you  call  it  ? — a  '  rise  up.'  " 

Oliver  Lumley  went  rather  pale,  and  then  rather 
red. 

"What!  Have  you  been  fooling  me  all  this 
time  ? " 

He  was  angry.  His  pride  was  hurt.  He  had 
given  the  best  of  his  brain  and  heart  to  this  little 
French  minx.  He  had  also  borrowed  a  good 
many  shillings  from  Horace  to  buy  her  flowers 
and  trinkets. 

"  You  are  broken-'earted  !     My  poor  boy  !  " 

She  looked  at  him  with  her  head  slightly  on 
one  side,  and  pressing  her  white  muff  to  her 
bosom. 


Love  on  the  Common       1 5 

He  laughed  furiously, 

"  No,  I  shall  not  break  my  heart.  I  shall  only 
think  that  women  are  as  selfish  and  callous  as 
she-devils." 

There  was  a  scene  under  the  oak-tree,  watched 
from  a  distance  by  a  butcher-boy  with  a  basket 
on  his  head. 

Gabrielle  shed  a  few  tears,  and  Oliver  was  con- 
strained to  kiss  them  away.  But  it  was  her  turn 
to  get  angry  when  he  refused  to  send  back  her 
letters.  She  had  brought  all  of  his  in  her  muff", 
and  he  seized  them  from  her  and  tore  them  up, 
scattering  their  pieces  to  the  wind.  The  butcher- 
boy,  whirling  his  basket,  had  a  paper-chase. 

"  If  you  is  a  gentleman  of  honour  I  demand  my 
letters." 

"  I  shall  keep  them  as  a  proof  of  your  infidelity." 

"  Quelle  Idchete  !" 

They  walked  back  together,  a  yard  apart,  to  the 
High  School. 

"  Good  morning  !  "  said  Oliver.  He  lifted  his 
hat  and  strode  away,  with  a  gloomy  face, 

A  few  weeks  later  he  saw  her  in  the  High 
Street.  She  was  leaning  on  the  arm  of  a  sandy- 
haired  little  man,  who,  no  doubt,  was  Mr.  Tipping. 
They  were  looking  at  a  suite  of  bedroom  furniture 
to  be  obtained  on  the  hire  system.  Oliver  gave 
an  ironical  laugh,  and  Gabrielle  le  Brun  started 
and  turned  her  head.  Their  eyes  met.  The  girl 
cut  him  dead,  as  we  say. 


*- 


1 6       Oliver's  Kind  Women 

It  was  the  last  time  he  saw  her.  But  he  used 
some  of  her  letters,  with  the  details  of  her  girlhood 
in  Paris,  for  a  short  story,  which  was  accepted  by 
a  monthly  magazine.  They  paid  him  five  pounds 
for  it,  and  he  reckoned  that  Gabrielle  had  paid  him 
back,  with  interest,  for  the  presents  he  had  given 
to  her  and  for  his  intellectual  and  moral  damage. 

But  he  forgot  to  pay  back  Horace,  who  had 
advanced  the  money  for  this  love  affair.  He 
bought  himself  his  first  dress  suit.  It  had  velvet 
buttons  and  a  broad  silk  stripe  down  each  leg. 
He  looked  like  a  young  duke  in  it. 


CHAPTER    III 

A  Man  of  Letters 

It  was  not  the  first  story  presented  to  the  world 
under  the  signature  of  Oliver  Lumley.  Towards 
the  end  of  a  year  of  rather  disappointing  experi- 
ments in  the  art  of  fiction,  01i\'er  had  got  into  his 
stride.  By  diligent  reading  of  the  magazines  he 
learnt  the  tricks  of  the  trade.  He  discovered  that 
too  much  striving  for  originality  is  a  mistake. 
Familiar  situations  worked  up  with  a  new  touch, 
conventional  characters  under  different  names, 
bright,  scrappy  dialogues,  a  little  tenderness  of 
sentiment,  a  sparkle  of  humour,  are  the  ingredients 
of  the  most  marketable  fiction,  and  when  you  have 
learnt  the  knack  of  it,  it  is  quite  easy.  Oliver 
Lumley  borrowed  his  plots  according  to  the 
admirable  French  philosophy  "  Je  prends  mon  bien 
ou  je  le  trouve,"  and,  having  adopted  this  method 
in  the  place  of  his  earlier  and  more  agonising 
efforts  to  spin  a  golden  web  of  thought  out  of  his 
own  knowledge  and  emotions,  he  achieved  a  success 
which  startled  his  family  and  satisfied  his  own  self- 
esteem. 

He  did  not  make  a  fortune,  you  understand,  but 
six  short  stories  were  accepted  out  of  fifteen  in  five 
2  17 


1 8        Oliver's   Kind  Women 

months,  and  brought  him  in  the  sum  of  ;{^24  lOi". 
Oliver  Lumley  was  satisfied  with  this  as  a  good 
beginning  to  a  literary  career.  It  enabled  him  to 
buy  many  little  luxuries  which  his  heart  desired, 
including  three  new  suits,  a  pair  of  excellent  patent- 
leather  boots,  a  number  of  fancy  ties  and  socks,  a 
pair  of  riding-breeches  and  gaiters  (which  would 
go  very  well  with  a  horse  when  he  could  afford 
one,  and  were  impressive  to  the  inhabitants  of 
Denmark  Hill  even  when  he  walked  in  them),  and 
a  silk  dressing-gown,  in  which  he  would  sit  of  an 
evening  when  thinking  out  new  subjects  for  his 
pen  and  the  various  steps  of  his  high-mounting 
career.  It  is  true  that  he  did  not  as  yet  see  his 
way  to  contribute  anything  to  the  household 
accounts,  nor  did  he  pay  back  his  sniall  debts  to 
Horace.  But  he  took  his  mother  and  Galatea  to 
the  theatre  one  night,  he  bought  a  new  edition 
of  "  Middlemarch  "  for  his  father,  and  to  Horace, 
who  liked  a  good  cigar,  he  gave  a  box  of  pretty 
good  Havanas.  They  were  pleased  with  his 
generosity,  and  awed  by  his  rapid  rise  to  fame. 

His  father,  especially,  was  profoundly  moved  by 
the  knowledge  that  he  had  produced  a  literary  son. 
As  each  story  appeared  he  read  it  again  and  again, 
and  never  lost  his  sense  of  wonderment  that  it 
should  have  been  written  by  Oliver.  But  there 
was  his  boy's  name  in  big  letters — "A  Complete 
and  Original  Story  by  Oliver  Lumley." 

If  the  words  had  been  written  in  letters  of  gold 


A   Man  of  Letters  19 

they  could  not  have  dazzled  him  more.  For 
literature  of  any  kind,  for  anything  written  and 
printed,  he  had  an  old-fashioned  reverence.  He 
believed  everything  in  his  daily  paper.  A  work 
of  imagination,  even  if  it  were  no  longer  than  a 
short  story,  seemed  to  him  a  wonderful  effort  of 
the  brain.  He  could  not  understand  how  his  own 
•child  could  have  learnt  the  secrets  of  the  human 
heart,  nor  how  he  could  have  plunged  so  deeply 
into  the  problems  of  life.  Sometimes  over  the 
breakfast-table,  or  in  the  evening,  he  would  stare 
stealthily  at  the  boy,  as  though  trying  to  fathom 
this  mystery  in  his  own  household.  He  was 
almost  frightened  of  him.  He  was  certainly  some- 
what nervous  of  the  handsome  fellow  who  dressed 
like  the  son  of  a  peer  (instead  of  being  the  son 
of  Cutter  &  Bodger's  under-paid  clerk),  who  had 
expensive  tastes,  of  which  Richard  Lumley  himself 
had  never  dreamed,  who  in  his  gay,  careless,  devil- 
may-care  way  expressed  his  open  contempt  for  the 
plain  and  simple  life  which  his  father  had  con- 
sidered to  be  the  height  of  prosperity  for  people 
of  his  class. 

One  of  the  proudest  moments  of  his  life  was 
when  a  fellow  clerk  said,  "  I  have  been  reading  a 
story  by  Oliver  Lumley  in  T/ie  Empire  Magazme. 
A  relative  of  yours  ?  " 

"  My  son,"  said  Richard  Lumley. 

Not  only  his  father,  but  Mrs.  Lumley,  Horace, 
and    Galatea    looked    upon    Oliver   with    a    new 


20       Oliver's  Kind  Women 

admiration  and  a  sense  of  awe.  Mrs.  Lumley's 
pride  in  her  son's  achievements  was  very  great, 
though  her  natural  humility  bade  her  conceal  this 
among  her  friends  and  neighbours  when  they  spoke 
to  her  of  her  "brilliant  boy." 

But  she  was  rather  scared  at  his  success.  There 
was  a  secret  fear  in  her  heart  that  he  would  get 
too  "  grand  "  for  their  humble  home-life.  And  she 
too  watched  him  sometimes  above  her  needlework, 
studying  him  as  he  sat  reading  in  one  of  his  new 
suits — poor  old  Horace  was  very  shabby  by  the 
side  of  him — with  the  cuffs  of  his  new  shirts  so 
white  and  spotless,  and  he  seemed  to  her  like  some 
Prince  Charming.  She  could  not  think  where  he 
got  his  ideas,  his  almost  terrifying  ambitions,  his 
extravagant  desires.  Not  from  her  did  he  inherit 
them.  She  was  content — nearly  always — to  make 
beds  and  puddings,  to  mend  socks  and  under- 
garments, and  to  do  the  daily  drudgery  of  a  small 
house  in  a  quiet  suburb.  It  almost  seemed  as  if 
this  boy,  with  his  desire  for  the  beautiful  things  of 
the  world,  for  a  society  which  she  only  knew  by 
the  fashionable  intelligence  in  TAe  Daily  TelegrapJi, 
and  for  the  great  gay  world,  must  have  been  a 
changeling  put  into  the  cradle  which  she  had 
rocked  twenty-one  years  ago ! 

Horace  and  Galatea  expressed,  in  different  ways, 
somewhat  similar  ideas. 

"  My  dear  old  chap,"  said  Horace  one  night, 
in  the  bedroom  which  they  had  shared  in  common 


A  Man  of  Letters  21 

until  Oliver  had  taken  possession  of  the  attic  as  a 
bed-sitting  room  and  study,  "  I  can't  think  where 
you  get  your  imagination  from.  That  last  story 
of  yours  is  a  stunner.  I  couldn't  have  thought  it 
out  to  save  my  life." 

Oliver  laughed. 

"  My  dear  old  fellow,  I'm  not  worrying  where 
the  ideas  come  from.  I  am  only  a  'prentice  hand 
as  yet.  These  are  the  first  crude  experiments. 
When  I  have  got  my  pen  well  tempered  then  you 
can  begin  to  talk.  One  of  these  days  I  shall  be 
making  my  i^  1,500  a  year." 

Horace  did  not  disbelieve  him  ;  but  the  fact 
made  him  thoughtful. 

"  At  that  time  I  shall  be  earning  at  the  most 
£17$.  That's  my  limit.  I'm  one  of  the  stick-in- 
the-muds." 

Oliver  put  his  hand  on  his  older  brother's 
shoulder. 

"  Never  you  mind.  Your  young  brother  ain't 
going  to  forget  his  best  pal  !  " 

"  One  of  these  days  you'll  be  ashamed  of  me," 
said  Horace. 

"  Rot !  "  said  Oliver. 

Galatea,  who  had  been  rather  scornful  of  Oliver's 
literary  pretensions,  was  now  humble  before  him. 
His  fine  clothes  gave  him  a  kind  of  nobility  in  her 
eyes.  To  walk  down  Denmark  Hill  with  him  was 
an  exciting  adventure,  for  all  her  girl  friends  were 
envious.     Certainly  he  looked  like  a  young  duke. 


22        Oliver's  Kind  Women 

"  Oliver,"  she  said  one  day,  quite  suddenly,  as 
she  sat  toasting  her  toes  before  a  glowing  fire,  with 
a  book  on  her  lap,  "  when  you  get  to  know  good 
people — people  outside  this  suburban  set — don't 
forget  you  have  a  sister." 

"  My  dear  old  kid,  you  may  bet  your  boots 
I  shall  never  forget  that !  What  are  you  driving 
at?" 

Galatea  held  her  hands  before  the  fire  and  her 
face.  Perhaps  it  was  the  heat  that  had  put  a  warm 
flush  into  her  cheeks. 

"  One  of  these  days  I  may  want  to  marry.  I 
don't  want  to  grow  into  an  old  maid.  I  should 
like  to  meet  some  nice  men." 

She  spoke  quite  frankly  and  with  simplicity. 

Oliver  looked  at  her  curiously.  Almost  for  the 
first  time  he  realised  that  his  sister  was  above  the 
average  in  good  looks.     He  told  her  so. 

"  Nice  men  will  like  to  meet  you.  You're  a 
deuced  pretty  kid,  you  know." 

Her  words  set  his  imagination  on  fire,  and  he 
painted  glowing  pictures  of  the  marriages  he  would 
arrange  for  her.  She  pulled  him  up,  with  a  gay 
laugh,  by  the  reminder  that  she  could  marry  only 
one  man. 

"  That's  all  right,"  said  Oliver.  "  You'll  be  able 
to  take  your  choice.  I  shan't  leave  you  in  this 
suburban  squalor." 


CHAPTER    IV 

Father    and    Son 

At  this  time,  it  will  be  remembered,  the  name  of 
Oliver  Lumley  had  appeared  only  six  times  in  the 
public  prints.  But  he  had  a  fair  supply  of  un- 
published stories,  his  imagination  was  vivid,  and 
he  could  safely,  or  at  least  hopefully,  assume  that 
he  was  well  on  his  way  to  luck. 

Nevertheless,  a  literary  man  is  not  as  other  men. 
His  temperament  (whatever  may  be  the  exact 
meaning  of  the  word)  requires  careful  nursing. 
His  imagination  must  be  stimulated  and  nourished 
by  emotional  experiences  and  a  full  knowledge  of 
life.  His  heart-beats  must  be  quickened  by  the 
electricity  of  social  intercourse.  So,  at  least,  the 
literary  man  asks  us  to  believe.  Oliver  Lumley 
was  not  slow  to  realise  the  necessity  of  these 
things.  He  complained  that  the  atmosphere  of 
Denmark  Hill  was  not  good  for  him.  He  stifled 
in  it. 

"  But,  my  dear  boy,"  said  Mrs.  Lumley,  "  every- 
body says  that  it  is  most  healthy.  Now,  Clapham 
is  much  more  relaxing." 

Oliver  laughed  heartily. 

"  My  dear  lady,  by  atmosphere  I  don't  mean  the 
23 


24       Oliver's  Kind  Women 

air  that  feeds  the  body.  The  mental  horizon  here 
is  too  lin:iited." 

Mrs.  Lumley  did  not  understand  his  words,  but, 
with  a  sinking  heart,  she  understood  his  purpose. 
After  various  hints  dropped  from  time  to  time 
he  finally  declared  his  intention  of  going  into 
"  diggings  "  in  the  West  of  London — "  the  great 
human  heart,"  as  he  called  it  in  the  new  language 
which  he  had  adopted  with  his  literary  career. 

He  had  been  exploring,  and  had  found  the  most 
ideal  crib  for  his  purpose  in  a  little  street  under  the 
shadow  of  Big  Ben  and  at  the  back  of  the  Abbey. 
The  houses  were  all  of  the  Queen  Anne  period. 
They  had  panelled  rooms  and  little  window-seats 
and  low  ceilings.  There  was  the  right  atmosphere 
here.  He  could  not  help  writing  novels  if  he  lived 
in  such  a  place.  He  would  be  under  the  spell  of  a 
romantic  influence,  and  he  could  get  a  bedroom 
and  sitting-room  in  Barton  Street,  Westminster, 
for  twenty-five  shillings  a  week,  including  breakfast 
and  attendance.  It  was  absurdly,  ridiculously 
cheap.  For  a  man  who  would  soon  be  earning  his 
thousand  a  year  it  was  almost  too  modest,  but 
Oliver  was  not,  as  he  said,  out  for  extravagance. 
He  would  always  live  simply. 

There  was  just  one  trouble.  At  the  outset  he 
could  not  be  sure  of  earning,  with  unfailing 
regularity,  the  two  pounds  or  two  pounds  ten 
which  he  would  need  for  his  weekly  expenses. 
Magazine  editors  did  not  pay  as  promptly  as  their 


Father  and  Son  25 

contributors  might  wish,  and  literary  men  were 
kept  waiting  for  their  money.  Oliver,  who  had  a 
certain  shrewdness  of  character  beneath  his  happy 
idealism  and  playfulness  of  fancy,  pointed  out  that 
he  would  be  severely  handicapped  at  the  beginning 
of  his  career  if  he  did  not  have  a  little  capital  to  fall 
back  upon  in  case  of  need.  He  pointed  this  out  to 
his  father  one  night  when  they  sat  talking  together 
after  the  other  members  of  the  family  had  gone  to 
bed.  For  the  first  time  during  recent  years  Oliver 
opened  his  heart  and  mind  to  his  father  with  can- 
dour and  earnestness. 

Richard  Lumley,  sitting  back  in  a  cane  settee 
which  cracked  at  every  movement,  was  filled  with 
a  father's  pride  at  this  handsome,  bright-eyed  son 
who  sat  straddlewise  across  a  wooden  chair,  with 
his  arms  folded  on  the  back  of  it,  and  his  firm  chin 
resting  on  his  arms,  while  he  spoke  in  glowing 
words  of  his  ambition,  his  future,  his  certainty  of 
success,  and  his  intended  generosity  to  all  at  home. 
Once  or  twice,  as  Oliver  went  on  with  his  mono- 
logue, his  father  contrasted  himself  with  his  own 
boy,  and  in  the  mirror  of  his  mind  saw  himself:  a 
shabby  man,  older-looking  than  his  years,  with 
lack-lustre  eyes,  a  thin  face  worn  with  hard  work 
and  continual  anxiety  to  make  both  ends  meet, 
and  a  head  that  was  getting  bald  too  soon,  owing 
perhaps  to  that  haunting  fear  of  losing  his  job 
at  Cutter  &  Bodger's — there  were  younger  men 
pushing  ahead  and  intriguing  against  him — which 


26       Oliver's  Kind  Women 

had  made  him  submissive  to  the  rather  sharp  and 
brutal  behaviour  of  his  employers,  and  slavishly 
eager  to  do  his  duty  to  the  uttermost  detail.  Once 
or  twice  a  sharp  pang  of  envy — almost  of  jealousy 
— of  this  boy  of  his,  with  his  youth  and  his  good 
looks,  took  possession  of  him. 

Years  ago  he  too  had  had  ambitions.  He  had 
desired  rather  more  of  the  good  things  of  life  than 
were  within  reach  of  a  junior  clerk  in  the  City. 
But  the  ambitions  had  never  been  fulfilled,  and  the 
good  things  had  never  come  within  his  reach. 
He  married  too  early.  He  had  always  been 
shabby.  He  had  always  been  struggling  in 
respectable  poverty.  It  had  crushed  him  and 
tamed  him.  Even  his  wife  pitied  him,  and 
despised  him  a  little,  because  his  spirit  had  been 
broken.  He  was  a  lonely  man.  Even  his  children 
kept  their  secrets  from  him,  and  were  happier  and 
more  unrestrained  in  their  laughter  when  he  was 
shut  up  in  his  own  room  working  out  the  house- 
hold accounts  or  brooding  over  a  book. 

Richard  Lumley  had  these  thoughts,  and  then 
was  ashamed  of  them.  He  followed  the  thread  of 
Oliver's  discourse.  He  warmed  his  chilled  heart 
in  the  glow  of  his  boy's  enthusiasm.  He  realised, 
not  without  gladness,  that  Oliver  wanted  his  father's 
assistance  and  co-operation  in  his  literary  career. 

Towards  the  end  of  the  talk  Oliver  put  forward 
a  request  very  plainly  and  simply.  Would  his 
father  allow  him,  or  rather  lend  him,  a  pound  a 


Father  and  Son  27 

week  for  a  year,  in  order  that  he  might  take  those 
rooms  in  Westminster  and  get  into  the  right 
atmosphere  ?  His  whole  career  depended  on  that. 
It  was  essential  to  his  success.  He  would  pay 
back  his  father  a  hundredfold.  He  would  return 
the  loan  with  generous  interest. 

"  You  can  always  look  to  me  for  support  in  your 
old  age,  dad.  You  can  look  upon  this  pound  a 
week  as  an  Old  Age  Insurance." 

He  laughed  in  his  infectious  way,  and  the  idea 
seemed  to  please  him  immensely.  Then  he  rode 
off  again  on  the  wings  of  his  imagination,  and  gave 
such  a  vivid  picture  of  the  rising  splendour  of  the 
Lumley  fam.ily  that  his  father's  first  startled 
protest  was  silenced,  and  the  proposed  allowance 
seemed  a  petty  thing  compared  with  the  great  gifts 
to  follow.  He  agreed  upon  that  pound  a  week, 
though,  as  he  explained,  it  would  mean  working 
later  hours  to  make  it  up  in  overtime,  and  the  most 
stringent  economy. 

Oliver  shook  hands  with  his  father  before  going 
to  bed. 

"  I'm  tremendously  grateful  to  you,  dad.  And, 
look  here,  don^t  tell  mother,  or  Horace  and  Galatea, 
Let  it  be  our  little  secret.     Is  that  a  bargain  ?  " 

Mr.  Lumley  made  it  a  bargain. 

"  God  bless  you,  my  boy,"  he  said.  "  I  am  very 
proud  of  you." 

He  lay  awake  that  night  wondering  how  on 
earth  he  could  squeeze  a  pound  a  week  out  of  his 


2  8        Oliver's  Kind  Women 

miserable  income,  which  was  not  more  than  enough 
to  make  both  ends  meet.  When  the  clock  struck 
three  he  groaned  aloud,  so  that  he  woke  his  wife, 

"  What  is  the  matter,  dear  ?  " 

"  Nothing,"  said  Mr.  Lumley  ;  "  I  am  just  a  trifle 
restless." 

So  Oliver  Lumley  left  the  house  in  Denmark 
Hill  and  went  into  his  lodgings  in  Barton  Street, 
Westminster,  where  the  atmosphere  was  more 
congenial  to  his  temperament. 

His  mother  wept  when  he  went.  She  twined 
her  arms  around  him  and  clasped  him  as  though 
she  were  losing  him  for  ever. 

On  the  first  night  of  his  absence  his  empty  chair 
stood  at  the  supper-table  and  the  little  maid-servant 
laid  his  place  by  mistake.  Mrs.  Lumley  put  her 
head  down  on  the  table  and  cried.  Then  she  went 
upstairs  to  her  bedroom  and  did  not  come  down 
again  that  evening.  Horace  and  Galatea  ate  their 
supper  without  speaking,  and  their  father,  after 
trying  to  maintain  a  monologue  with  artificial 
cheerfulness,  relapsed  into  silence. 

But  in  Barton  Street,  Westminster,  Oliver  was 
giving  a  supper  party  to  three  of  his  friends.  It 
cost  him  the  best  part  of  the  first  sovereign 
advanced  by  his  father.  But  he  did  not  begrudge 
the  cost.  He  had  got  into  his  right  "atmosphere" 
at  last.  For  a  literary  man  this  was  better  than 
the  squalor  of  the  suburbs.  His  soul  was  free  to 
set  out  upon  the  adventures  of  life. 


CHAPTER  V 

The  louch  of  Chivalry 

I  HAVE  said  that  Oliver  Lumley  was  a  tempera- 
mental young  man.  That  word  will  dog  me 
through  this  book,  for  it  is  inevitable,  though 
inexplicable.  It  is  his  own  word.  Again  and 
again  throughout  his  career  he  used  it  of  himself, 
complacently,  proudly ;  in  self-glory  and  in  self- 
excuse  ;  in  prosperity  and  in  adversity ;  in 
exultation  and  in  despair. 

"  I  am  a  man  of  temperament,"  he  said.  Let 
us,  therefore,  not  quarrel  with  the  word,  but  try, 
as  far  as  we  may,  to  understand  it.  This 
mysterious  temperament  may  account  for  many 
things  which  otherwise  would  be  puzzling  in  the 
life  of  this  young  man  of  letters.  I  blame  it  for 
many  things  in  his  career,  I  praise  it  for  other 
things.  There  are  times  when  we  must  pity  the 
young  man  for  being  possessed  by  this  tyrannical 
temperament  of  his.  Let  us  look  at  him  as 
established  in  Barton  Street,  Westminster  (a  world 
away,  it  would  appear,  from  Rosemary  Avenue, 
Denmark  Hill),  and  follow  some  of  his  adven- 
tures. 

Rapidly  he  made  his  way  into  many  different 
29 


30        Oliver's  Kind  Women 

phases  of  London  society,  both  high  and  low,  and, 
to  use  one  of  his  own  phrases,  touched  life  "  in 
many  of  its  varied  aspects."  Life  held  out  its 
hands  to  him,  for  his  good  looks  and  his  youthful 
spirit  won  friendship  and  goodwill.  Men  much 
older  than  himself  liked  to  hear  his  laughter  and  to 
listen  to  his  philosophy  as  it  changed  from  hour  to 
hour.  Women  of  all  classes — and  he  became 
acquainted  with  ladies  of  reputation  and  otherwise 
— could  not  resist  the  fascination  of  this  boy  if  he 
took  the  trouble  to  put  his  spell  upon  them. 

He  was  generally  pleased  to  take  that  trouble. 
As  a  student  of  human  nature,  he  was  deeply 
interested  in  the  heart  of  womanhood,  whether  it 
was  hidden  under  the  print  frock  of  a  servant- 
maid,  the  cheap  blouse  of  a  shop-girl,  the  sealskin 
jacket  of  a  chorus  girl,  or  the  Liberty  tea-gown  of 
a  lady  of  fashion.  Often  he  would  set  out  from 
Barton  Street  with  the  object  of  extending  his 
studies  in  this  direction,  and  he  seldom  came  home 
without  new  knowledge. 

Some  men  might  walk  London  for  a  week 
without  making  acquaintance  with  any  human  soul 
and  without  a  single  romantic  adventure.  Not  so 
Oliver.  He  was  a  striking  proof  of  the  old  proverb 
— Adventures  to  the  adventurous.  If  he  went  into 
a  tobacconist's  shop  to  buy  a  threepenny  packet  of 
cigarettes,  he  was  almost  certain  to  have  an  inte- 
resting encounter  with  the  girl  who  served  him. 
She  would  call  him  "  silly,"  and  giggle  at  the  little 


The  Touch  of  Chivalry      31 

compliment  which  he  would  drop  as  lightly  as  the 
match  with  which  he  had  struck  a  light  But  upon 
his  third  visit  she  would  whisper  her  secrets  to  him 
over  the  counter,  and  ask  for  his  advice  or  his 
sympathy  upon  intimate  problems  of  her  life. 
His  way  of  saying  "  my  dear  child,"  the  frank 
candour  of  his  eyes,  his  really  noble  manner  and 
condescending  graciousness  seemed  to  bewitch  a 
a  girl  like  this  so  that  she  would  lay  bare  her  little 
heart  to  him.  In  this  way  he  became  on  terms  of 
friendship  with  pretty  waitresses  in  restaurants  and 
tea-shops,  with  young  women  who  served  behind 
the  bars  of  taverns  between  Fleet  Street  and 
Piccadilly  Circus,  with  a  chorus  girl  of  the  Hilarity 
Theatre  whose  muff  he  had  picked  up  as  she 
dropped  it  when  jumping  off  an  omnibus  ;  with  a 
flower-girl  outside  Westminster  Abbey  who  pinned 
a  blossom  to  his  coat  every  morning  when  he 
sauntered  forth  from  his  lodging  to  drink  the  air 
and  study  the  bustle  of  life  ;  with  a  poor  girl  to 
whom,  he  would  sometimes  stand  a  cup  of  coffee 
at  a  stall  when  Big  Ben  was  booming  its  mid- 
night strokes  ;  and  with  women  in  the  Queer 
Streets  of  a  great  city,  which  he  explored  in  a 
spirit  of  romance  and  adventure. 

Scraps  of  conversation  with  these  new  friends  he 
made  revealed  to  him  strange  tragedies  of  life,  and 
gave  to  him  glimpses  of  Other  Points  of  View 
(as  he  entitled  them  in  his  note-book)  which  were 
most  valuable  to  him  as  a  writer  of  fiction. 


32        Oliver's  Kind  Women 

Take  that  scene  when  he  met  Daphne  at  the 
coffee  stall  by  Westminster  Bridge.  She  was 
hanging  on  the  arm  of  a  young  man  in  evening 
dress  who  was  obviously  the  worse  for  drink.  The 
lamplight  fell  upon  her  white  face  with  its  carmine 
lips  and  big  grey  eyes.  The  wind  blew  a  wisp  of 
hair  across  her  forehead.  Her  hat  had  a  black 
feather  in  it,  made  sodden  and  limp  by  the  rain 
which  was  still  falling  lightly.  Her  dress  was 
splashed  up  to  the  waist  with  mud.  The  girl 
looked  hungry  and  miserable,  but  she  laughed 
with  a  shrill  and  awful  gaiety  as  she  clutched  the 
arm  of  the  man  and  said,  "  Well,  at  least  you  can 
give  me  a  cup  of  coffee,  can't  you  ?  " 

"  Get  off ! "  said  the  man.  He  pushed  her 
violently  away  from  him,  and  she  fell  on  her  hands 
and  knees  in  the  mud.  It  was  Oliver  who  raised 
her  up.  "  My  poor  child,"  he  said,  "  I  hope  you 
are  not  hurt  ?  "  The  man  in  evening  dress  lurched 
off,  stopping  once  or  twice  to  look  round.  His  hat 
was  on  the  back  of  his  head  and  he  had  the 
imbecile  look  of  a  drunken  man. 

"  It  is  well  for  him  that  he  has  made  off,"  said 
Oliver. 

He  took  out  his  pocket-handkerchief  and  wiped 
the  girl's  hands  and  some  of  the  wet  mud  off  her 
dress. 

She  seemed  dazed,  and  leant  up  against  the 
coffee-stall,  in  which  a  stout  man  stood  with  his 
elbows  on  the  counter  watching  the  scene  stolidly. 


The  Touch  of  Chivalry      33 

"  A  cup  of  coffee,  mister,"  said  Oliver,  and  when 
he  took  it  from  the  man  he  held  it  to  the  girl's 
lips.  The  first  sip  seemed  to  revive  her  and 
brought  a  flush  of  colour  into  her  white  face.  She 
took  the  cup  and  saucer,  and  while  she  drank  the 
steaming  liquid  stared  at  Oliver  as  though  he  were 
some  strange  and  unfamiliar  being. 

"  You've  spoilt  that  handkerchief  of  yours, 
haven't  you  ?  "  she  said. 

"  Oh,  that's  nothing.  .  .  .  What  a  brute  that 
fellow  was  ! " 

"  They're  all  brutes,"  said  the  girl,  putting  down 
her  cup  with  a  clatter.  "  All  bad,  but  some  are 
worse  than  others."  She  thought  for  a  moment, 
pressing  her  hand  to  her  temples. 

"  If  I  were  to  meet  a  good  man,  I  would  go 
down  on  my  knees  in  the  mud  to  him,  and  then 
ask  him  to  scrag  me." 

"  I  am  pretty  good  myself,"  said  Oliver.  "  Not 
so  bad.  But  I  don't  want  to  spoil  another  hand- 
kerchief, and  I  certainly  shan't  scrag  you." 

"  You're  not  good,  are  you  ?  "  said  the  girl.  She 
put  a  hand  on  his  arm,  and  stared  up  into  his  face. 
Their  eyes  looked  into  each  other  closely.  She 
breathed  heavily,  and  then  gave  a  miserable 
laugh. 

"  Oh,  I  expect  you're  like  the  rest  of  them.  .  .  . 
Are  you  coming  home  ?  " 

"  I'll  see  you  home,"  said  Oliver.  "  Where  do 
you  live  ?  " 

3 


34       Oliver's  Kind  Women 

"  Turncoat  Street.     It's  not  far  from  here." 

She  put  her  arm  through  his,  and  leant  her 
head  against  his  shoulder.  Oliver  held  his  um- 
brella over  her,  for  the  rain  was  falling  heavily 
now.  As  they  walked  he  questioned  her  about 
her  life  and  her  people.  She  told  him  that  her 
name  was  Daphne,  that  her  life  was  hell,  and  that 
her  people  were  devils.  Her  father  and  brother 
were  "  professional "  gentlemen.  They  had 
chucked  her  because  she  was  too  well  known  to 
the  "  narks."  She  had  done  a  bit  of  time  herself. 
All  things  considering,  prison  was  better  than  the 
streets. 

"  My  poor  little  one  !  "  said  Oliver.  "  To  think 
that  you  might  have  been  a  good  wife  and 
mother  !  " 

The  remark  was  rather  commonplace  in  the 
circumstances,  but  it  startled  the  girl  Daphne  as 
though  he  had  hit  her.  She  dropped  his  arm  and 
looked  at  him  with  a  stare  of  surprise. 

"Strike  me!"  she  said.  "You're  not  a  parson, 
are  you  ?  " 

"  Good  heavens  no !  "  said  Oliver,  "  What 
makes  you  think  that  ?  " 

"  Well,  you  do  talk  like  one  of  them  save-your- 
soul  fellows." 

Then  she  made  a  confession. 

"  Not  but  what  I  don't  like  a  little  bit  of  religion 
now  and  again.  I  have  got  a  few  texts  round  the 
walls.     You'll   see   them    when   you   come   in.     I 


The  Touch  of  Chivalry      35 

bought  them  for  tuppence  in  a  second-hand  book- 
stall down  Farringdon  Road." 

She  gave  a  shrill  laugh,  as  though  tickled  by  the 
sharp  ironies  of  life. 

"  Strange  !  "  said  Oliver.  "  Even  you  have  not 
lost  all  your  spirituality,  little  one.  Poor  child  of 
the  streets  ! " 

"  Oh,  shut  up  !  "  said  Daphne.  "  Spirituality  ! 
I  don't  think  !  " 

They  turned  down  a  narrow  alley,  where  lights 
blinked  through  the  broken  window-panes  and 
tattered  blinds  of  some  dilapidated  houses.  A 
woman's  shriek  pierced  the  silence. 

"  What's  that  ?  "  said  Oliver. 

"  Nothing  to  fret  about.  You  hear  lots  of  queer 
noises  down  this  street.     Nobody  bothers." 

The  girl  stopped  before  a  low  doorway  and 
fumbled  in  her  frock  for  a  latchkey. 

"  Well,  good-bye  ! "  said  Oliver.  "  I  am  glad  to 
have  seen  you  home." 

"  What !     Aren't  you  coming  in  ? " 

The  girl's  grey  eyes  grew  big  with  amazement. 

"  No ;  of  course  not !  " 

He  took  her  hand  and  put  it  to  his  lips. 

"  I  have  a  reverence  for  all  poor  women  ;  for  the 
little  flower  of  love  that  is  in  every  woman's  heart." 

She  pulled  her  hand  away,  as  though  he  had 
ctung  it  with  the  touch  of  his  lips. 

"  What  are  you  playing  at  ?  "  she  said  hoarsely. 
"  I'm  not  a  good  woman.     I'm  a  bit  of  dirt." 


36       Oliver's  Kind  Women 

"No.  You  are  unfortunate,  that  is  all.  In 
another  position  of  life  you  would  have  been  a 
good  woman.     Good  night,  my  poor  Daphne  !  " 

The  girl  was  leaning  back  against  the  door. 

"  Oh,  God  !  "  she  cried,  and  laughed  and  laughed 
hysterically. 

Oliver  strode  away,  and  the  shrill  laughter 
thrilled  in  his  ears  until  he  turned  the  corner  into 
the  Westminster  Bridge  Road.  He  had  a  warm 
glow  about  the  heart.  He  felt  that  he  had  be- 
haved with  chivalry  and  nobility.  He  was  pleased 
with  himself.  He  remembered  that  phrase  of  his, 
"  I  reverence  the  little  flower  of  love  that  is  in 
every  woman's  heart."  He  stopped  under  the 
lamp-post  and  made  a  note  of  it.  "  Rather  pretty  ! " 
he  said. 


CHAPTER   VI 

The  Lady  Bountiful 

THft  adventure  with  Daphne  suggested  an  idea  for 
a  short  story,  which  he  called  "  Flower  o'  the  Mud." 
He  wrote  it  tenderly,  and  it  was  accepted  in  The 
Magazine  of  Fiction.  The  editor  sent  a  note  of 
congratulation,  and  asked  to  see  more  of  his  work. 
Daphne  had  paid  for  her  cup  of  coffee. 

He  received  another  letter,  which  pleased  him 
even  more  than  the  one  from  the  editor.  It  was 
such  a  genuine  and  tender  tribute  of  admiration 
from  a  stranger.  It  was  written  on  hand-woven 
paper,  from  which  as  he  opened  the  envelope  there 
stole  out  the  faint  fragrance  of  violets.  "  A  lady ! " 
said  Oliver,  and  his  instinct  was  right.  In  a  very 
firm  and  delicate  handwriting  were  the  words  that 
follow : 

"Dear  Sir,— 

"  Will  you  forgive  me — a  stranger — for  writ- 
ing a  few  lines  to  tell  you  how  deeply  I  have  been 
touched  by  your  story,  '  Flower  o'  the  Mud '  ?  I 
lire  here  in  a  quiet  village  where  there  is  but  little 
poverty,  and  where  I  think  the  loveliness  of  Nature 
(so  generous  in  its  beauty !)  keeps  our  hearts  free 
from  the  basest  passions  and  the  most  violent 
37 


38       Oliver's  Kind  Women 

temptations  of  life.  Even  here  we  have  our  tra- 
gedies, and  the  human  heart  is  always  frail,  but  we 
are  sheltered  from  all  those  terrible  dangers  which 
beset  the  path  of  young  men  and  women  in  a  great 
city.  I  myself  live  a  rather  cloistered  life  (an  old 
English  garden  keeps  my  hands  busy  and  my  heart 
glad),  but  sometimes  I  reproach  myself  for  enjoying 
that  comfortable  peace  which  is  denied  to  those 
who  toil  so  hard  in  the  midst  of  noise  and  in  the 
depths  of  squalor.  Your  story  of  that  httle  human 
flower  blossoming  in  the  mud  of  evil  things  made 
me  weep  for  all  that  such  poor  girls  have  to  suffer 
on  their  way  through  the  world.  It  is  wonderful  to 
me  to  think  that  a  man  should  have  such  a  delicate 
understanding  of  a  woman's  heart,  and  should  write 
her  story  with  such  tenderness  and  sympathy.  This 
is  the  first  letter  I  have  ever  written  to  an  author 
who  is  unknown  to  me,  and  I  hope  very  much  you 
will  forgive  this  intrusion. 
"  I  am, 

"  Yours  truly, 

"Virginia  Garland. 


"  P.S. — I  enclose  a  cheque  for  ;^io,  in  the  hope 
that  you  may  see  your  way  to  use  it  for  the  relief 
of  deserving  cases  among  the  outcasts  of  London 
whom  you  may  know  as  a  student  of  London  life. 
If  that  is  troubling  you  too  much,  kindly  send  it  to 
the  Hospital  for  Women. 

"V.  G. 
••The  Rookery,  Windlesham, 
•'  Worcestershire." 


The   Lady   Bountiful  39 

Oliver  Lumley  read  this  letter  several  times,  with 
a  glowing  sense  of  pleasure  and  pride.  It  was  the 
first  time  the  lady  had  written  to  an  author,  she 
said,  and  it  was  the  first  time  that  Oliver  Lumley, 
author,  had  received  a  letter  from  one  of  his 
readers.  It  was  a  sign  of  his  increasing  fame. 
It  was  a  proof  that  he  could  write  living  words  to 
stir  the  hearts  of  men  and  women. 

He  repeated  the  name  of  his  correspondent. 
"  Virginia  Garland — how  charming  and  fragrant !  " 
In  his  imagination  he  conjured  up  the  picture  of 
his  admirer — it  was  a  picture  of  a  beautiful 
girl  of  twenty-five  or  so,  with  brown  hair  and 
an  oval  face  with  dark,  luminous  eyes.  She 
wore  a  big  straw  hat  with  roses  in  it,  and  a  white 
dress.  She  was  sitting  on  the  terrace  of  a  noble 
garden  with  a  bouquet  of  flowers  on  her  lap  and 
The  Magazine  of  Fiction  on  a  little  stool  by 
her  side.  It  was  open  at  the  page  where  his 
own  story  was  printed,  " '  Flower  o'  the  Mud,'  by 
Oliver  Lumley." 

A  charming  picture !  He  was  almost  in  love 
with  it.  Then  he  fingered  the  cheque  drawn  upon 
the  London  and  County  Bank.  Ten  pounds ! 
At  that  moment  he  had  two  shillings  and  seven- 
pence  halfpenny  in  his  pocket.  The  cheque  was 
made  out  in  his  name,  and  he  could  do  what  he 
liked  with  it  in  charity.  Here  was  an  opportunity 
for  playing  the  good  fairy. 

He  sat  down  in  his  small  room  in  Barton  Street 


40       Oliver's  Kind  Women 

and,  clearing  a  place  among  the  breakfast  things, 
which  had  not  yet  been  taken  away,  as  Big  Ben 
boomed  out  the  stroke  of  noon  (he  had  been  late 
overnight  and  was  still  in  his  blue  silk  dressing- 
gown),  he  wrote  an  enthusiastic  letter  of  thanks  to 
"  Virginia  Garland." 

He  told  her  something  of  his  own  ideals  and 
aspirations  as  a  literary  man,  and  as  a  student  of 
human  nature.  He  told  her  how  glad  he  would 
be  to  get  away  to  the  flower  fields  and  the  peace 
of  the  country  from  the  squalor  and  roar  and 
tragedy  of  London,  the  modern  Babylon,  but  how 
his  duty  held  him  to  his  world  of  bricks  and 
mortar. 

"  I  accept  your  beautiful  gift,"  he  wrote,  "  on 
behalf  of  those  poor  children  of  life  who  dwell 
with  poverty.  I  will  use  it  to  the  best  advantage, 
and  in  their  rough  and  simple  way  they  will  bless 
your  name." 

There  was  a  moisture  in  his  eyes  when  he  sealed 
the  envelope.  He  was  stirred  with  generous 
emotion.  He  addressed  the  letter  to  Miss  Virginia 
Garland,  after  a  moment's  hesitation  as  to  the 
"  Miss."  But  he  was  certain  she  was  not  a  married 
woman. 

After  completing  his  toilet  he  had  a  short  inter- 
view with  his  landlady,  who  pressed  for  the  rent, 
which  was  three  weeks  overdue.  With  a  little 
good-natured  pleasantry  it  was  easy  to  persuade 
her  to  wait  awhile.     Then  he  cleaned  his  patent- 


The  Lady  Bountiful        41 

leather  boots  with  his  own  hands  in  the  kitchen, 
where  Bessie  the  maidservant  was  making  a  roly- 
poly  pudding  (he  kissed  her  bare  arm,  which 
looked  so  pretty  as  it  was  powdered  with  the 
white  flour  up  to  her  dimpled  elbow!)  and  after- 
wards went  out  to  the  post.  Thence  he  took  a 
"  taxi  "  to  the  London  and  County  Bank,  where  he 
cashed  the  cheque,  and  paid  for  the  cab  out  of  a 
pound  in  silver. 

A  little  while  later  Oliver  met  Sally  Stiff,  the 
flower-girl  who  provided  him  with  his  morning 
button-hole.  She  had  her  carnation  ready  for  him, 
and  said,  "  Look  'ere,  young  man,  I  ain't  a-goin'  to 
give  you  sich  long  credit.  You  owe  me  for  a  week 
already,  and  though  you  do  say  sich  pretty  things 
abaht  me  brahn  'air  an'  coral  teeth,  I'm  not  in 
business  for  the  love  of  the  thing.     See  ?  " 

"  My  dear  Sally,"  said  Oliver,  "  is  there  any  little 
thing  you  want  just  now  ?  Have  you  set  your 
mind  on  any  small  treasure  ?" 

The  girl  laughed,  and  showed  those  remarkably 
white  teeth  to  which  Oliver  had  paid  a  compliment 
one  day.  Some  passers-by  turned  to  look  at  the 
girl  with  the  ruddy  face  and  loose  brown  hair,  who 
stood  with  her  hand  on  her  broad  hip  and  a  basket 
of  flowers  slung  from  her  shoulder.  They  wondered 
why  she  was  "  cheeking  "  the  young  swell  who  was 
talking  to  her. 

"  Hush  !     I'm  quite  serious  !  " 

"  Gar'n  !  "  said  Sally  Stiff. 


42        Oliver's   Kind  Women 

Oliver  said  that  it  was  a  case  of  honour  bright. 
He  showed  her  as  proof  a  new  half-sovereign. 

"  Look  here,  I'm  going  to  make  you  a  present  of 
that.  Have  you  got  a  poor  old  mother  at  home, 
or  an  invalid  sister?  It  will  do  them  a  bit  of 
good." 

"Pore  old  muvver?  Lor'  lumme,  she's  been  in 
the  Jug  these  three  years  past  for  bashing  pore 
old  farver ! " 

The  girl  laughed  with  shrill  amusement. 

"Invalid  sister,  did  yer  siy?  No  blooming  fear. 
There's  nothing  the  matter  with  our  'ealth.  A 
bit  of  rope  'as  made  the  quickest  death  in  our 
family ! " 

"  Well,  anyhow,  you  are  one  of  the  poor  children 
of  the  great  city,"  said  Oliver,  somewhat  dis- 
heartened. "  Buy  yourself  some  nice  warm  things 
with  this." 

The  girl  took  the  half-sovereign,  and  bit  it  with 
her  nice  white  teeth. 

"  It's  a  good  un  !  .  .  .  My  word,  it  would  buy 
me  a  bloomin'  fine  'at  with  fevvers,  wouldn't  it  jest! 
That  would  knock  Alf  a  bit !  " 

She  stared  at  the  bit  of  gold  in  her  big  red  hand. 
Then  she  turned  on  Oliver  as  fiercely  as  a  young 
tigress. 

"  'Oo're  yer  gitting  at  ?     What's  yer  gime  ?  " 

"  Hush  !  "  said  Oliver.  "  I've  got  no  game.  I 
want  nothing  back — except  one  or  two  carnations. 
Have  you  got  a  pin?" 


The  Lady  Bountiful         43 

He  picked  out  one  of  her  flowers  and  put  it  into 
his  coat. 

"  That's  a  fair  bargain.     Put  it  on,  Sally." 

The  girl  obeyed  with  trembling  hands. 

"  I  siy.  I  didn't  know  you  was  one  of  them 
millionaire  blokes.  Strike  me  pink !  'Arf  a 
shiner !  " 

"I'm  not  rich.  I'm  as  poor  as  a  church  mouse. 
But  this  is  a  gift  from  a  fairy  godmother." 

Oliver  Lumley  went  on  his  way  with  the  joyous 
feeling  of  having  done  a  charitable  deed. 

"  Thank  Heaven,"  he  said,  "  I  was  born  with  a 
good  heart." 


CHAPTER  VII 

The  Price  of  a  Meal 

Oliver  showed  the  excellence  of  his  heart  by  the 
way  in  which  he  distributed  the  other  part  of  the 
ten  pounds  from  Virginia  Garland.  He  treated 
Miss  Livvy  O'Brien  and  one  of  her  girl  friends  to 
a  charming  though  modest  luncheon  at  Michel's  in 
Soho. 

Liwy  was  the  young  chorus  lady  whose  muff 
Oliver  had  picked  up  as  she  jumped  off  a  bus 
opposite  the  Hilarity  Theatre.  Oliver  had  made 
good  friends  with  her,  and  once  or  twice  had 
visited  her  lodgings  in  the  Kennington  Road — it 
was  awkwardly  near  his  own  home  in  Denmark 
Hill — where  she  had  introduced  him  to  other 
young  women  of  the  profession  and  to  young 
actors  who  dropped  in  to  take  tea  with  her. 
Livvy  acted  musical  comedy  in  summer  and  panto- 
mime in  winter  (she  had  had  a  speaking  part  in 
"Jack  and  the  Beanstalk  "),  and  out  of  her  twenty- 
five  shillings  a  week  she  helped  her  parents,  who 
lived  in  Dublin.  So,  at  least,  she  said  ;  and  as  she 
was  an  Irish  girl  there  was  no  reason  to  doubt 
her. 

Oliver  considered  that  he  was  fully  justified  in 
44 


The  Price  of  a  Meal       45 

regarding  her  as  a  "  deserving  case  "  according  to 
the  terms  of  Virginia  Garland's  bequest.  He  also 
extended  the  principle  to  the  girl  friend,  Doris 
Fortescue. 

"  The  poor  girls  do  not  have  much  brightness 
in  their  lives,"  he  said  to  himself.  "  They  certainly 
are  outcasts.  It  will  be  the  best  of  charity  to 
give  them  a  little  good  cheer  for  once  in  their 
lives." 

He  cheered  them  up  remarkably  well,  and  indeed 
no  one  would  have  imagined  that  either  Livvy  or 
Doris  were  outcasts  in  a  world  of  misery.  Livvy 
was  in  the  highest  spirits  when  Oliver  fetched  her 
from  the  theatre  after  a  rehearsal  and  sat  between 
her  and  Doris  in  a  hansom  cab,  on  the  way  to 
Michel's. 

"  Isn't  he  the  dearest  boy  out  of  Dublin  ? "  she 
said  to  her  friend,  and,  putting  her  arm  through 
his,  pressed  her  rosy  face  against  his  shoulder, 
leaving  there  a  faint  mark  of  pearl  powder. 

Doris  took  Oliver's  other  arm,  and  said  that  he 
was  an  angel  in  disguise  and  quite  the  nicest  thing 
she  had  ever  met  in  a  bowler  hat. 

The  luncheon  party  was  a  complete  success,  but 
rather  more  expensive  than  Oliver  had  reckoned. 
When  he  said  "  What  are  you  girls  going  to  drink 
— lemonade,  I  suppose  ?  "  Doris  sang  a  little  song 
which  had  the  refrain  of  "  Catch  me  !  Catch  me  ! 
Catch  me !  "  and  said,  "  I  fancy  a  little  bottle  of 
port ;   don't  you,    Livvy  ?      It  will  warm   up   the 


46        Oliver's  Kind  Women 

cockles  of  our  hearts  after  the  draughts  in  that 
filthy  theatre."  Livvy  said  that  any  old  thing 
was  good  enough  for  her,  but  she  did  not  object 
to  port.  So  port  it  was,  paid  for  by  Virginia 
Garland's  charity. 

Undoubtedly  it  did  warm  up  the  cockles  of  their 
hearts,  for  with  rather  flushed  cheeks  and  sparkling 
eyes  they  laughed  with  the  most  silvery  ripple  at 
every  jest  of  Oliver's,  told  a  number  of  amusing 
theatrical  stories,  and  over  the  cigarettes  and 
coffee  indulged  in  confidences  about  their  adven- 
tures on  tour,  which  revealed  a  good  deal  of  human 
nature  to  a  young  man  in  quest  of  knowledge. 

Livvy  sat  next  to  Oliver  and  fondled  his  hand 
every  time  she  laid  down  her  fork,  which  was  not 
so  often,  for  she  had  a  hearty  young  appetite. 
Even  after  a  five-course  meal  she  suggested,  with 
an  exaggerated  brogue,  that  "sure  an'  she  would 
be  plased  if  the  darlingest  boy  would  jump  to  a 
box  of  chockies  for  the  sweetest  little  rosebuds 
that  bloomed  in  the  Strand."  Oliver  "jumped," 
and  in  less  than  fifteen  minutes  Livvy  and  Doris 
had  consumed  chocolates  to  the  amount  of  three 
and  sixpence.  He  took  them  back  again  to  the 
theatre  in  a  cab,  and  they  thanked  him  vivaciously 
for  the  real  treat  he  had  given  to  them. 

"  You  have  behaved  like  a  perfect  gentleman," 
said  Livvy.  She  put  her  head  on  one  side  and 
eyed  him  roguishly.  "  Like  a  musical-comedy 
gentleman,"    she    added,   with   a   final    ripple    of 


The  Price  of  a  Meal        47 

laughter,  and  then  with  a  swish  of  her  skirts  she 
sped  through  the  stage  door. 

The  luncheon  cost  Oliver  Lumley  two  pounds 
and  a  few  shillings.  "  And  extremely  cheap,  too !  " 
was  his  reflection  when  he  added  up  the  items  ot 
that  remarkable  meal. 


CHAPTER    VIII 

Men  of  the   Empire 

The  expenditure  of  what  remained  of  Virginia 
Garland's  bounty — amounting  to  seven  pounds  or 
so — may  not  be  set  down  in  detail,  for  Oliver  was 
not  a  man  of  accounts,  but  a  man  of  letters.  A 
good  deal  of  it  was  dispensed  at  the  Wastrel  Club 
in  the  form  of  whiskies-and- sodas  to  fellows  who 
were  down  on  their  luck,  and  so  poor  that  they 
could  not  refresh  their  rather  painful  thirst  until 
some  other  member,  more  blessed  with  this  world's 
goods  than  they,  took  pity  on  them,  and  said, 
"  Have  a  drink,  old  man  ?  "  Oliver  Lumley  felt 
it  to  be  a  very  noble  privilege  to  take  the  lead 
in  this  matter,  and,  though  the  youngest  member 
of  the  club,  to  act  in  some  degree  as  the  Master  of 
Ceremonies. 

It  was  the  more  delightful  to  him  because  these 
men  were  intellectual  Bohemians,  and  among  them 
were  the  leaders  of  thought  in  England,  the  cream 
of  London's  literary  and  artistic  life,  and  the 
members  of  that  inmost  circle  which  had  seemed 
so  far  away,  so  glorious,  and  so  exclusive,  when 
Oliver  was  beginning  his  new  career  in  Rosemary 
Avenue,   Denmark    Hill.      It   was,   of    course,   of 

48 


Men  of  the  Empire         49 

immense  value,  socially  and  professionally,  to 
Oliver,  that  he  should  enter  this  circle,  and  be  on 
terms  of  equality  with  brothers  of  his  craft. 

He  owed  this  privilege  to  an  old  schoolfellow  of 
his  with  whom  he  had  renewed  friendship  after 
a  meeting  in  the  lounge  of  the  Empire.  There  it 
was  one  night  that  Oliver  was  tapped  on  the 
shoulder,  and  turning  round  heard  a  voice  say — 
"Roly — or  I'll  eat  my  hat!  "  It  was  a  crush  hat, 
and  the  face  underneath  was  familiar  to  Oliver  in 
a  reminiscent  way. 

"  Why,  it  is  Kiss-me-Hardy !  .  .  .  my  dear  old 
chap  ! " 

The  two  men  clasped  hands. 

"  You  are  looking  awfully  fit !  " 

"  We  have  both  changed  a  lot.  How  many 
years  ago  is  it  ?     Seven,  by  Jove  !  " 

Charles  Hardy  was  a  tall  young  man  in  rather 
shabby  evening  clothes  and  a  crumpled  shirt-front. 
He  stood  six  feet  high,  with  broad  shoulders  and 
a  good  chest.  He  was  too  stout  for  his  age,  but 
had  a  big  boyish  face,  with  eyes  as  blue  as  forget- 
me-nots,  and  a  fine  head  of  fair  hair  cropped  pretty 
close,  but  with  crisp  curls.  He  was  a  typical  actor, 
by  the  look  of  him,  the  sort  of  man  who  would 
bring  the  house  down  as  the  hero  of  a  Drury  Lane 
melodrama,  clasping  the  little  heroine  to  his  broad 
bosom  with  the  limelight  on  his  upturned  face  and 
in  the  whites  of  his  eyes.  His  looks  belied  him. 
Oliv-er  discovered  afterwards  he  was  a  journalist  on 
4 


50       Oliver's  Kind  Women 

a  halfpenny  paper,  where  he  had  gained  an  immense 
reputation  and  a  fair  salary  as  a  "  sob-merchant." 
That  is  to  say,  he  supplied  the  sentiment. 

With  his  blue  eyes  and  a  sunny  smile  he  looked 
at  Oliver  from  head  to  foot,  and  then  gave  him  an 
approving  word. 

"  You've  improved,  my  lad.  Quite  a  blood — 
what  ?  "  He  glanced  over  to  the  stage,  where  a 
girl  in  a  thin  garment  was  capering  before  a  ghastly 
head.  "  Infernal  nonsense  !  Let's  get  out  of  this. 
Come  round  to  the  Wastrels." 

"  Who  are  they  ?  "  asked  Oliver. 

Hardy  made  his  blue  eyes  bigger. 

"  Don't  know  the  Wastrels  ?  Well,  you've  a 
lot  to  learn  !  " 

Oliver  was  abashed.  He  blushed  and  stammered 
out  that  he  had  heard  of  them  somewhere.  He 
was  annoyed  to  think  that  he  should  appear  so 
suburban  to  this  old  schoolfellow,  who  had  all  the 
air  of  a  man  of  the  town. 

"  Will  you  have  anything  ?  "  he  said,  to  cover 
his  confusion,  and  Hardy  replied,  "  Why  not  ?  " '  in 
his  genial,  careless  way. 

Two  whiskies  and  a  split  soda  were  provided 
out  of  Virginia  Garland's  bounty.  Then  Hardy 
led  the  way  out  of  the  theatre  and  hailed  a  taxicab. 
On  the  way  he  questioned  Oliver  as  to  his  business 
in  life,  and  laughed  heartily  when  he  heard  of  his 
literary  ambitions. 

"  Poor  devil !  "  he  cried.     "  Take  my  advice  and 


Men  of  the  Empire  51 

become  a  commercial  traveller.  You'll  make  more 
money,  old  man." 

On  leaving  the  cab  he  put  his  hand  in  his  pocket 
and  jingled  some  coins.  But  Oliver  was  before- 
hand with  him.  "  This  is  mine,"  he  said  ;  and 
Hardy  gave  him  a  sunny  smile  and  said,  "  Just  as 
you  like,  my  child." 

That  was  Oliver's  first  night  at  the  Wastrels, 
and  he  had  a  merry  time  in  the  heart  of  modern 
Bohemia. 


CHAPTER    IX 

The  Bohemians 

The  place  was  a  barely  furnished  suite  of  rooms 
on  the  first  floor  of  a  house  on  the  outskirts  of 
Soho,  and  its  walls  were  plastered  from  floor  to 
ceiling  with  outrageous  caricatures  of  the  club- 
members,  distorted  out  of  all  human  likeness,  yet 
suggestive  in  a  diabolical  way  of  the  frailties, 
follies,  and  vanities  of  human  character.  It  seemed 
as  if  the  artist  had  given  impressionistic  studies  of 
the  souls  of  his  victims  seen  by  jaundiced  eyes. 

"  Extraordinary  !  "  said  Oliver,  staring  at  them. 

"  Yes,  devilish  clever,  aren't  they  ?  "  said  Hardy. 
"That  fellow  would  go  far,  if  the  English  fool- 
public  had  any  sense  of  art.     Which  they  haven't." 

He  took  Oliver's  coat  and  hung  it  on  a  peg. 

"  I'll  introduce  you  to  some  of  the  boys,"  he  said. 
Bright-looking  lot,  don't  you  think  ?  " 

"  Who  are  they  ?  "  asked  Oliver,  with  humility. 
"  I  ought  to  know  them,  I  suppose.  But  I  have 
only  just  begun  to  live," 

"  Oh,  you'll  see  Life  here,  my  boy !  With  a 
big  L.  We're  all  famous  people  in  the  Wastrels. 
The  public  ignores  us,  but  we  admire  each  other — 
tremendously  and  industriously.     See  that  fellow 

52 


The  Bohemians  53 


with  the  touzled  hair  that  has  never  seen  a  brush 
these  ten  years,  and  coffee  stains  down  his  shirt- 
front?     That's  Rowland  Higgs." 

"  Who's  he  ?  "  said  Oliver. 

"  Good  Lord  !  " 

Hardy  appeared  to  be  shocked  to  his  inmost 
soul,  and  then  chuckled  deliciously,  as  though  he 
liked  the  sensation. 

"  Don't  know  Rowland  Higgs  ?  Why,  he's  the 
celebrated  poet,  writes  decadent  verse  in  The 
Academy.  Has  produced  three  morbid  plays  at 
the  Stage  Society.  Reviews  novels  and  children's 
books,  by  way  of  earning  a  living.  He's  one  of 
our  big  guns,  I  can  tell  you.  We  always  put  him 
up  on  one  of  our  '  nights  '  to  recite  '  Our  Last  Ride 
Together  ' — Longfellow's  or  Swinburne's  or  some- 
body's— and  he  always  forgets  the  words,  and  we 
all  clap  and  say  '  Dashed  good,  old  fellow ;  you 
ought  to  be  with  Beerbohm  Tree.' " 

Hardy  glanced  round  the  room  to  pick  out 
other  notabilities,  and  found  them  easily, 

"  There's  Braintree  Smith,  editor  of  The  Social 
Guide.  Takes  tea  regularly  with  the  Countess  of 
Nottingham,  and  knows  all  the  scandal  of  society. 
Docs  the  social  notes  in  The  Crown  and  lives  on 
Tulse  Hill.  .  .  .  And  there's  Winwood  Barnes,  the 
dramatic  critic.  I  can  see  he  has  had  five  first 
nights  this  week  by  the  state  of  his  shirt.  ,  .  . 
That  tired-looking  young  man  with  reddish  hair 
and  white-mouse  eyes  is   Douglas   Vernon,   who 


54        Oliver's   Kind  Women 

writes  those  historical  novels  full  of  sword-play 
and  romantic  adventure.  Cribs  Dumas  all  the 
time,  and  in  the  opinion  of  his  friends  on  the 
literary  pages  of  the  press  is  better  than  his  master. 
You  must  have  seen  his  stuff  on  the  bookstalls? 
It  is  read  by  every  typist  girl  in  London." 

Hardy  seemed  to  be  enjoying  himself  His 
eyes  roved  round  the  room,  and  at  every  glance 
he  gave  a  life-history  of  a  man  of  fame,  of  whom 
Oliver  Lumley  had  never  heard.  Among  them 
were  painters,  drawing-room  entertainers,  novelists, 
essayists,  critics,  black-and-white  artists,  two  or 
three  barristers,  and  several  journalists. 

"  You  can  always  tell  a  journalist,"  said  Hardy, 
"because  he  always  makes  himself  the  central 
figure  of  his  anecdotes  and  talks  with  an  air  of 
authority  upon  every  subject  under  the  sun,  re- 
vealing his  childlike  ignorance  in  every  sentence. 
I  ought  to  know,  because  I  am  a  journalist  myself 
with  the  same  tricks.  .  .  .  But  look  here,  I  must 
not  fail  to  introduce  you  to  old  Ballantyne.  He's 
our  show-piece.  We  keep  him  in  free  drinks,  with 
occasional  free  grub  (though  the  old  fellow  can  go 
for  a  week  without  eating),  and  have  a  subscrip- 
tion once  every  five  years  to  buy  him  a  new  suit 
of  clothes  in  order  that  he  may  be  within  the 
regulations  of  decency  as  laid  down  by  the 
Metropolitan  Police.  Ballantyne  has  made  this 
club.  He  gives  it  all  its  glamour.  He  brings 
American    visitors   to   the   Wastrel    '  nights.'     He 


The  Bohemians  55 

has  bolstered  up  our  reputation  as  a  haunt  of 
Bohemians.  For  there  is  no  denying  that  he  is 
the  last  of  the  Bohemians.  Forty  years  ago  he 
played  Shakesperian  clowns  in  the  provinces,  once, 
according  to  tradition,  he  played  Hamlet  at  the 
old  Surrey.  Since  then  he  has  not  done  a  stroke 
of  work,  but  lives  on  a  sardonic  and  poisonous 
humour,  upon  stories  of  old-time  actors,  and  upon 
the  bounty  of  literary  hangers-on  who  get  into 
touch  with  Bohemianism  by  lending  him  half- 
crowns,  standing  him  whiskies,  and  listening  with 
winks  and  nods  and  chuckles  to  his  ofttold  yarns. 
Without  old  Ballantyne  the  Wastrels  wouldn't 
exist.     Understand  ?  " 

Oliver  did  not  understand  very  clearly,  because 
he  suspected  his  friend  of  indulging  in  satire,  and 
because  he  felt  a  thrill  of  pride  at  arriving  at  last  in 
one  of  the  inner  haunts  of  the  true  Bohemianism. 

"  Hulloh  !  "  said  Hardy,  "  there's  old  Burdon. 
That's  good.  I'll  put  you  on  to  him  for  a  start. 
It'll  save  me  a  lot  of  trouble  and  do  you  a  bit 
of  good." 

He  steered  a  straight  course  to  an  elderly  man 
with  a  frock-coat  tucked  over  his  knees,  a  stiff 
white  waistcoat  over  a  somewhat  portly  stomach, 
which  formed  a  good  background  for  a  massive 
gold  chain  with  seals,  and,  among  other  charac- 
teristics of  elderly  respectability,  a  bald  head 
which  glistened  like  a  china  globe  under  the 
electric  light. 


56       Oliver's  Kind  Women 

"  Room  at  your  table,  young  fellow  ? "  asked 
Hardy,  in  his  delightfully  easy  way.  "  Here's  a 
nice  youth  whom  I  want  to  introduce  to  you. 
Oliver  Lumley — a  rising  star  in  the  spacious 
heavens  of  literature,  don't  you  know  ?  That  is  to 
say,  he  has  written  for  The  Police  Budget.^' 

"  My  dear  young  sir,"  said  Mr.  Burdon,  rising, 
and  grasping  Oliver  by  the  hand  warmly,  "  I  am 
delighted,  delighted.  Any  man  of  letters  may 
command  me  for  a  whisky,  or  two,  or  three.  Sit 
down,  Mr.  Lumley.  Join  the  boys.  We  are  sans 
cer^monie  in  the  Wastrels.  All  Bohemians  here, 
you  know  !  " 

"  It  is  very  kind  of  you  ! "  said  Oliver,  and  he 
was  genuinely  moved  by  his  warm  welcome.  He 
sat  down  between  two  young  men  with  extremely 
pallid  faces  and  rather  long  hair,  who  were  sip- 
ping glasses  of  whisky  silently  and  thoughtfully. 
They  were  introduced  to  Oliver  as  Mr.  Bingham 
and  Mr.  Shawcross,  the  well-known  dramatists. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  table  was  a  man  who 
might  have  been  anything  between  thirty-five  and 
seventy-five,  with  a  clean-shaven  face,  a  heavy  jaw, 
and  hard-boiled  eyes.  He  wore  an  old-fashioned 
stock  and  dog's-eared  collar,  and  among  other 
details  of  his  costume  was  a  pair  of  immaculate 
patent  boots  with  cloth  uppers.  He  sat  over  a 
very  large  tankard  of  beer,  which  he  held  firmly 
in  one  big  hand,  and  when  he  spoke,  which  was 
seldom,  it  was  in  a  hoarse  voice,  like  a  coster  who 


The  Bohemians  57 

has  been  crying  his  wares,  and  when  he  winked, 
which  was  often,  it  convulsed  the  whole  side  of  his 
face. 

Mr.  Burdon  introduced  him  by  the  name  of 
Gilbert  Verney,  "  the  celebrated  barrister."  It  was 
then  that  the  gentleman  gave  the  first  of  his 
cataclysmic  winks,  and  said  in  his  hoarse  voice, 
"  What-o !  " 

On  the  other  side  of  him  was  an  older  man  with 
a  mass  of  red  hair,  and  a  long,  lean  face,  with 
melancholy  blue  eyes  which  matched  his  flowing 
tie.  He  wore  a  Norfolk  jacket,  Harris  tweed 
trousers  very  baggy  at  the  knees,  and  big  brown 
boots. 

"  Our  humorist,  Jack  RaiTerty,"  said  Mr.  Burdon, 
by  way  of  introduction. 

Mr.  Burdon  himself  was  magnificent.  He  talked 
continuously  in  the  greatest  good  humour,  and 
told  a  number  of  anecdotes  of  a  somewhat  old  and 
full-flavoured  kind.  These  he  always  prefaced  by 
the  same  words  :  "  By  the  way,  boys,  have  I  told 
you  that  little  story  about  .  ..."  so  and  so. 

The  answer  was  always  the  same  :  "  No,  go  on, 
old  man  !     Let's  have  it." 

This  was  from  Gilbert  Verney,  the  old,  or  young, 
gentleman  with  the  stock  and  the  dog's-eared 
collar,  who  then  gave  a  hoarse  chuckle,  and  one 
of  his  vast  winks. 

"  A  good  story  is  like  old  wine.  You  can't  have 
too  much  of  it." 


58       Oliver's   Kind  Women 

This  was  from  Jack  Rafferty,  "  Our  humorist," 
as  he  was  called,  who  then  sighed  deeply,  and 
stared  across  the  room  through  the  tobacco  smoke 
with  wistful,  melancholy  eyes,  until  he  was  slapped 
on  the  back  by  Mr.  Burdon,  who  called  him  a 
devilish  droll  dog. 

"  I  am  sure  it  will  be  fresh  to  me,"  said  Mr. 
Bingham,  one  of  the  celebrated  dramatists. 

"  I'm  listening,"  said  Mr.  Shawcross,  the  other 
celebrated  dramatist. 

"  Well,  then,  if  you  will  have  it,"  said  Mr. 
Burdon,  launching  forth  into  a  narrative  of  which 
the  conclusion  was  too  obvious  at  the  beginning. 

"  Devilish  good,  old  buck  !  "  said  Gilbert  Verney, 
turning  stiffly  round  in  his  chair  to  wink  at  Oliver 
with  immense  solemnity.  "  And  as  fresh  as  a 
daisy.     But  who  said  drinks  ?  " 

"  God  bless  my  soul !  "  cried  Mr.  Burdon.  "  For- 
give me,  boys.     Waiter  !  " 

And  the  waiter  was  commanded  to  bring  more 
beer  for  Mr.  Verney — "  In  a  tankard,"  said  Mr. 
Verney — and  more  whisky  for  the  other  gentle- 
men. 

It  was  astonishing  to  see  the  amount  of  liquid 
refreshment  ordered  by  Mr.  Burdon  and  put  down 
to  his  account  by  the  waiter.  Friendly  hands 
would  press  him  on  the  shoulder,  and  friendly 
voices  say,  "  Dear  old  boy,  in  fine  form  as  usual, 
eh?"  And  Mr.  Burdon  would  look  round,  with  a 
delighted  laugh,  and  say,  "  My  dear  lad,  how  are 


The   Bohemians  59 

you  ?  But  you've  got  nothing  to  drink  !  What 
shall  it  be?" 

"  Oh,  a  drop  of  Scotch,"  or  "  a  green  Chartreuse," 
or  "a  small  Bass,  old  man,"  were  the  cheerful 
replies  of  the  friendly  voices. 

Oliver  Lumley  was  overawed  by  this  prodigal 
generosity.  He  wondered  who  this  bland  and 
benevolent  old  gentleman  might  be.  Probably,  he 
thought,  the  editor  of  The  Ttjnes,  or  an  actor- 
manager  of  importance  and  wealth.  Yes,  looking 
at  the  white  shirt-front  and  the  massive  gold 
chain,  he  decided  upon  the  actor-manager. 

An  improvised  entertainment  was  in  progress  in 
the  room,  for  it  was  a  Wastrel  "  night."  Old 
Ballantyne — "dear  old  Ballantyne,"  said  Mr. 
Burdon — was  called  for  by  long  and  repeated 
shouts.  He  turned  deaf  ears  to  them  for  several 
minutes,  and  sat  scowling  in  a  seat  nearest  to  the 
fire,  plucking  at  his  long  iron-grey  locks,  or  passing 
his  long,  bony  hands  over  his  sharp,  gaunt  knees. 
Then  he  rose  and  took  his  stand  by  the  fireside, 
and  in  a  deep,  sepulchral  voice,  said,  "  The  Grave- 
diggers'  Scene  from  Hamlet." 

Tremendous  applause  followed  this  announce- 
ment, and  at  the  fag-end  of  it  Mr.  Burdon  leant 
over  to  Oliver  and  whispered  in  his  ear :  "  An 
actor  of  the  old  school,  my  lad  !  We  don't  breed 
them  now.  .  .  .  I've  heard  him  do  it  a  hundred 
times,  and  it  is  always  inimitable." 

Ballantyne  declaimed  the  old  familiar  lines.     At 


6o       Oliver's  Kind  Women 

times  it  seemed  as  if  the  wind  whistled  through 
his  toothless  gums.  At  times  his  sepulchral  voice 
broke  into  a  childish  treble.  His  lean,  grey  face 
was  twisted  into  strange  and  hideous  contortions. 
His  words  were  as  indistinct  as  Irving's  in  his  most 
inarticulate  moments.  But  at  the  conclusion,  when 
he  thrust  back  his  iron-grey  locks  and  bowed  with 
grave  dignity  to  the  company,  tremendous  en- 
thusiasm applauded  him. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  that}"  asked  Mr.  Burden 
of  Oliver,  and  without  waiting  for  an  answer  said 
"  Magnificent.     The  old  school !    The  old  school !  " 

Gilbert  Verney  turned  his  hard-boiled  eyes  to 
Oliver,  and  Oliver  had  learned  by  this  time  to 
expect  the  prodigious  wink  which  followed. 

"Gives  one  a  bit  of  a  twist,"  said  Mr.  Gilbert 
Verney,  staring  into  his  empty  tankard. 

And  Mr.  Burdon  said  :  "  My  dear  old  boy, 
forgive  me !  Waiter !  More  beer  for  Mr. 
Verney," 

*'  In  a  tankard,"  said  Gilbert  Verney. 

Other  gentlemen  followed  with  songs,  recitations, 
and  anecdotes.  They  were  given  chiefly  by  elder 
members  of  the  club,  several  of  whom  wore  frock- 
coats.  Tremendous  enthusiasm  followed  every 
performance,  though  it  was  evident  from  Mr. 
Burdon's  remarks,  and  from  the  behaviour  of  the 
company,  that  they  were  familiar  of  old  with  every 
item  on  the  impromptu  programme.  They  called 
the  names  of  the  songs,  and  sang  the  choruses 


The  Bohemians  6i 

They  knew  the  end  of  each  anecdote  before  it  had 
been  told,  and  laughed  uproariously  before  the 
point  had  been  reached.  They  prompted  with 
lines  of  recitations  when  the  reciter  forgot  his 
words. 

"Dear  old  Robinson,"  said  Mr.  Burdon.  "He 
has  told  that  story  on  every  Wastrel '  night '  for  the 
last  fifteen  years.     And  it  is  better  every  time." 

Only  one  man's  song  was  received  with  coldness 
and  lack  of  applause. 

"  That's  something  new,  isn't  it  ? "  asked  Mr. 
Burdon.  "  It's  poor  trash,  and  rather  bad  form, 
don't  you  think  ?  The  Wastrels  are  not  to  be 
fudged  off  with  things  that  have  not  had  the  hall- 
mark of  their  approval." 

"  I  agree,"  said  Mr.  Jack  Rafferty,  the  humorist 
"  We  don't  want  new  wine  in  old  bottles." 

Mr.  Burdon  laughed  noisily. 

"  We  can  always  rely  on  old  Jack  Rafferty  for 
an  epigram."  He  turned  to  Oliver  Lumley. 
"  Devilish  droll  dog,  isn't  he  ?  He's  our  humorist, 
you  know." 

Oliver  laughed  also  ;  but  he  wondered  where  the 
joke  was,  or  where  the  epigram.  It  bothered  him 
a  good  deal  in  bed  that  night. 

At  the  conclusion  of  the  entertainment  the 
Wastrels  seemed  suddenly  to  go  mad  all  together, 
and  by  general  consent. 

"  The  Wastrels'  Band  ! "  cried  Mr.  Burdon, 
laughing  until  the  tears  came  into  his  eyes.     He 


62        Oliver's  Kind  Women 

seized  a  plate  and  a  spoon,  and  used  them  as 
drum  and  drumstick,  while  he  marched  round  the 
room  in  a  procession  of  club-members  playing 
strange  and  awful  music  on  instruments  of  a 
curious  kind. 

Mr.  Gilbert  Verney  used  a  pewter  tankard  as 
a  gong,  upon  which  he  rapped  with  his  latch-key. 
An  old  gentleman  with  silvery  locks  and  a  refined 
old  face  was  banging  away  at  a  tea-tray.  The 
fire-tongs,  the  shovel  and  poker,  newspapers  rolled 
into  the  form  of  trumpets,  a  comb  and  tissue  paper, 
a  penny  whistle  produced  from  the  frock-coat  of 
a  respectable  middle-aged  man  with  side  whiskers, 
a  violin,  on  which  one  of  the  club  members  had 
played  Mascagni's  "  Intermezzo,"  provided  instru- 
ments for  other  performers,  and  with  a  wild  hulla- 
baloo, a  terrific  din  and  discord,  yells,  cat-calls, 
and  snatches  of  song  the  Wastrels  proceeded 
round  and  round  the  table,  with  queer,  freakish, 
grotesque  steps,  like  a  cake-walk  in  a  lunatic 
asylum. 

Oliver  had  a  German  beer  jug,  with  which  he 
contrived  to  make  a  good  deal  of  noise  by  snap- 
ping the  lid  up  and  down.  His  head  was  in  a 
whirl.  His  pulse  was  beating  fast.  His  blood 
was  all  a-tingle.  This  was  Life  !  This  was  the 
folly  of  Youth !  ...  It  was  magnificent  anyhow, 
although  as  regards  youthfulness  he  was  surprised 
at  the  number  of  middle-aged  men  who  took  part 
in  the  mad  merriment. 


The  Bohemians  63 


Mr.  Burdon  returned  to  the  table  mopping  his 
forehead. 

"  Oh,  Bohemia  !  "  he  said.  "  Bohemia !  Gay, 
mad,  dissolute  old  Bohemianism  !  " 

He  asked  if  any  of  the  boys  would  like  a  drink. 
Many  of  them  accepted  the  proposal. 

"  Dry  work  !  "  said  Gilbert  Verney.  "  Where's 
the  beer  ?  " 

"  Waiter,  more  beer  for  Mr.  Verney,"  said  Mr. 
Burdon. 

"  In  a  tankard,"  said  Gilbert  Verney. 

The  clock  was  striking  twelve.  The  tinkling 
bell  seemed  to  have  a  magical  effect  upon  the 
company.  Young  men  gulped  down  their  liquid 
hurriedly.  Old  men,  whose  eyes  were  rather 
watery  now,  tilted  their  glasses  with  a  haste  which 
caused  some  of  them  to  spill  a  little  whisky  down 
their  shirt-fronts. 

"  Well,  the  last  train  for  Tooting  waits  for  no 
man  ! "  said  Mr.  Jack  Rafferty,  the  humorist. 
"  And  the  wife  is  waiting  for  me  at  the  other  end 
of  the  line  ! " 

Mr.  Burdon  chuckled,  grasped  his  hand  warmly, 
and  slapped  him  on  the  back. 

"  Witty  to  the  last !  "  he  said,  laughing.  "  You'll 
die  with  a  jest  on  your  lips,  old  boy.  .  .  .  Gay  old 
dog!" 

"  The  twelve-ten  to  Brixton,  my  lad,"  said  Mr. 
Shawcross,  the  celebrated  dramatist,  to  Mr.  Bing- 
ham, the  other  celebrated  dramatist. 


64       Oliver's  Kind  Women 

"  Can  we  do  it  ?  "  said  Mr,  Bingham  anxiously. 
"  Alice  will  be  waiting  up  for  me." 

"  I'm  for  Wimbledon,"  said  Gilbert  Verney.  He 
gave  one  of  his  hoarse  chuckles,  and  Oliver  just 
dodged  his  curious  wink.  "  A  far  cry  from 
Bohemia  !     But  much  better  air  out  of  town." 

There  was  a  general  exodus  from  the  club,  and 
respectable,  middle-aged  gentlemen  suddenly  re- 
membered "  the  wife,"  while  some  of  them  also 
remembered  with  alarm  that  they  had  forgotten 
to  take  the  latch-key. 

"Well,  back  to  the  little  suburban  home,"  said 
one  of  the  club  members. 

Mr.  Burdon  shook  both  of  Oliver's  hands. 

"  Delighted  to  have  met  you.  Delighted.  I  am 
always  glad  of  brilliant  conversation.  It  is  a 
mental  pick-me-up,  a  moral  tonic.  You  must  join 
the  Wastrels,  Mr.  Lumley,  sir.  A  young  literary 
man  like  yourself — Bohemia,  you  know.  Let  me 
nominate  you." 

"  I  should  be  most  honoured,"  said  Oliver. 
"  But  as  yet  I  am  only  a  novice.  I  am  serving 
my  apprenticeship." 

Mr.  Burdon  waved  his  doubts  away. 

"  You  are  a  literary  man.  That  is  enough.  .  .  . 
Personally,  I  regret  to  say,  I  am  not  a  professional 
man  of  letters,  only  a  connoisseur  and  patron,  as 
they  would  have  said  in  the  old  days.  The  fact 
is  ..."  he  lowered  his  voice,  and  squeezed  Oliver's 
arm  in  a  confidential  way — "  I   keep  a  hat-shop 


The  Bohemians  65 

in  the  City,  303,  Cheapside.     Home  address,  22, 
Primrose  Villas,  Dulwich.     If  you  need  a  new  hat 
I  always  give  discount  to  the  Wastrels." 
^    He  became  more  confidential. 

"  I  like  to  come  here  with  the  boys.  Dear  lads  ! 
dear,  gay-hearted,  irresponsible  Bohemian  lads ! 
As  you  have  seen,  I  am  somewhat  of  a  raconteur. 
They  like  my  stories.  It  is  pleasant  to  get  away 
from  Dulwich  into  this  wild  Bohemian  haunt.  It 
brings  back  the  spirit  of  immortal  youth." 

He  put  his  hand  on  his  white  waistcoat  in 
the  direction  of  his  heart,  and  gazed  round  the 
room  with  moist  eyes,  sniffing  a  little  at  the 
stale  tobacco  smoke  and  the  fumes  of  the  whisky 
dregs, 

"  Ah  ! "  he  said.     "  Bohemia  !  " 

He  grasped  Oliver  by  the  hand. 

"  I  must  hurry  away,  my  dear  lad.  The  wife 
always  stays  up  to  warm  a  basin  of  broth  for 
me." 

Only  a  few  men  remained  in  the  club.  One 
of  them  was  the  old  man  Ballantyne,  whose  lean 
withered  face  looked  like  a  death-mask  as  he  sat 
over  the  last  embers  of  the  club  fire.  He  was 
telling  some  rather  terrible  stories  of  vicious 
humour  to  three  or  four  young  men,  who  burst 
out  into  shrill  laughter. 

Oliver  looked  round  for  Hardy,  his  old  school 
chum,  but  he  had  gone  hours  before.     Then  Oliver 
went  out  into  the  street,  glad   to  feel    the  fresh 
5 


66       Oliver's  Kind  Women 

night  air  in  his  face.  His  eyes  and  lips  and  palate 
were  smoke-dried.  He  had  a  bad  headache.  But 
he  had  seen  behind  the  hidden  veil  of  modern 
Bohemia,  and  he  felt  that  he  had  gone  a  step 
forward  in  his  career.  His  only  regret  was  that 
so  many  of  those  Bohemians  lived  in  the  suburbs. 


CHAPTER  X 

A  Letter  to  a  Lady 

"  My  dear  Miss  Virginia  Garland  "  (the  letter  was 
from  Oliver  Lumley), 
"  Your  name  has  a  beautiful  fragrance  to  me — if 
you  will  allow  me  to  say  so— and  sometimes  in  city 
streets  the  memory  of  it  comes  to  me  like  a  breath  of 
sweet  country  air.  To-day  this  fragrance  is  really  present 
to  my  senses,  for  I  have  upon  my  desk  now  as  I  write, 
above  a  litter  of  manuscripts  (I  confess  that  as  a  man  of 
letters  I  am  hopelessly  untidy !)  a  cheap  vase  containing 
those  flowers — the  hollyhocks  and  sweetwilliams — which 
you  have  sent  me  from  your  garden.  That  was  like  the 
Lady  Bountiful  you  are.  It  is  very  comforting  to  me, 
very  encouraging  (believe  me)  to  know  that  while  I  toil 
in  town,  weaving  plots,  getting  deep  into  the  throbbing 
turmoil  of  humanity,  exploring  this  great,  and  wonderful, 
and  squalid  city  in  the  quest  for  Truth  (for  that,  after 
all,  is  the  vocation  of  the  Uterary  man),  that  far  away 
in  the  country  is  a  lady,  unknown  to  me  except  by  name 
and  sympathy,  who  sometimes  in  her  quiet  garden  and 
among  her  blossoms,  sends  a  thought  to  the  man  who 
has  no  quietude,  and  no  flower-garden  save  that  of  the 
imagination. 

"  But  you  have  sent  more  than  a  thought — httle  gifts, 
tangible  and  practical,  and  full  of  power  and  charity. 

67 


68       Oliver's  Kind  Women 

For  your  last  five  pounds  I  thank  you  most  sincerely,  on 
behalf  of  those  luckless  ones  among  whom  I  have  distri- 
buted it,  in  your  name,  as  largesse  in  their  misery.  Shall 
I  give  an  account  of  my  stewardship?  That  would 
weary  you.  But  be  assured  that  it  has  given  new  hope, 
a  little  joy,  a  good  relief,  to  several  poor  souls  '  down  on 
their  luck,'  as  they  say. 

'*  You  write  that  you  cannot  understand  the  miracle  of 
that  imaginative  and  creative  gift  which  belongs  to  the 
novelist.  You  envy  it.  No.  It  is  not  to  be  envied. 
The  literary  temperament  is  a  miserable  heritage.  Some- 
times I  could  pray  most  earnestly  that  it  should  be  lifted 
from  me,  and  that  I  should  become  one  of  those  ordinary 
men  who  go  on  their  quiet,  plodding  way  with  good- 
humour  and  content,  without  that  self-analysis,  that 
quivering  sensibility,  those  haunting,  unsatisfied  desires, 
which  torture  the  artist. 

"  Shall  I  tell  you  some  of  my  secrets — the  secrets  of  a 
literary  man  ?  We  do  not  know  each  other,  except  in 
correspondence,  so  that  the  confession  is  not  dangerous  ! 
(I  write  jestingly  !)  Shall  I  tell  you  of  the  agonies  of 
that  creative  gift  which  you  so  envy  ?  You  think  it  is  a 
natural  gift  which  flows  easily.  All  artists  would  deny 
that.  Creation,  whether  in  painting,  music,  or  literature, 
is  always  painful.  Believe  me,  I  sit  down  for  hours  before 
blank  paper,  wrestling,  as  it  were,  with  my  own  inner 
consciousness,  in  the  hope  that  suddenly  out  of  nothing- 
ness there  will  appear  an  idea — a  situation — a  plot.  A 
hundred  vague  and  shadowy  forms,  the  unborn,  embryo 
creatures  of  imagination,  float  through  my  brain.  The 
echoes  of  our  great  throbbing  human  life  come  with 
faint,  formless  harmonies  to  my  senses.  The  beginnings  of 


A  Letter  to  a  Lady         69 

stories,  the  ends  of  stories,  the  tangled  threads,  or  ragged 
ends  of  human  dramas,  tease  me  on  with  the  expectation 
of  arranging  themselves  into  clear-cut,  definite,  orderly 
motives  for  a  narrative.  Then  suddenly  I  find  my 
nerves  are  quivering,  my  head  hot,  my  heart  sickened 
with  these  vain  intellectual  efforts.  I  have  smoked  too 
much  (an  evil  habit,  though  sometimes  it  soothes  the 
senses,  and  concentrates  the  mind),  and  I  plunge  out 
into  the  fresh  air,  into  the  busy  streets.  At  home  on  my 
desk  the  paper  is  still  blank  !  And  always  there  is  the 
haunting  thought  to  a  poor  literary  man — I  am  some- 
times proud  of  my  poverty,  and  sometimes  afraid  of  it — 
that  he  must  write  a  story  or  go  without  a  meal ;  that  he 
must  write  something  new  somehow,  to  pay  his  bills, 
that  he  must  create  or  starve ! 

"  The  tragedy  of  it  is  that  his  temperament  demands 
things  unnecessary  to  the  ordinary  man.  He  needs  a 
continual  change  of  environment,  of  scenery,  and  of 
society.  Otherwise  he  rusts,  and  his  imagination  is 
limited  by  the  commonplace.  He  needs  beauty — 
though  he  lives  perhaps  in  squalor.  His  poverty  is  not 
that  stimulus  which  it  has  been  called  by  comfortable 
folk.  It  often  degrades  him,  drags  him  down,  stifles 
him,  destroys  him.  He  is  tempted  to  work  down  to  the 
level  of  what  the  public  will  buy,  rather  than  strive  for 
the  high  summits  of  his  ideals.  Editors — the  merchants 
of  Literature — are  in  conspiracy  against  his  idealism,  and 
he  is  tempted  by  the  devil.  Tempted  also  by  the  beauti- 
ful fairies  of  life.  I  confess  to  you,  dear  Lady  Bountiful, 
that  I  love  and  desire  the  beautiful  things  of  this  world 
— beautiful  pictures,  beautiful  furniture  (does  not  Ruskin 
say  that  the  imagination  is  brutalised  by  living  with  ugly 


70       Oliver's  Kind  Women 

things  ?)  beautiful  dresses,  music,  paintings,  and  scenery. 
Occasionally  I  get  glimpses  of  these  things,  for  I  have 
the  privilege  of  going  at  times  among  people  who  possess 
them.  (As  a  gentleman  I  am  not  denied  pleasant 
society,  though  as  a  literary  man  I  am  poverty-stricken  !) 
— but  always  I  have  to  return  to  this  wretched  lodging 
and  its  gimcrack  furniture,  and  its  slatternly  landlady — 
dear  soul  that  she  is  ! 

"  Why  do  I  tell  you  these  things  ?  Because,  though 
we  have  never  met  (do  you  never  come  to  town?)  I 
know  that  you  will  sympathise,  and  perhaps  under- 
stand. Forgive  me  if  I  have  been  too  candid  in  self- 
revelation. 

"  Yours  always  sincerely, 

"Oliver  Lumley. 

"  P.S. — Yes,  George  Herbert's  poems  are  very  beauti- 
ful. I  send  you  in  return  my  latest  story.  A  little  trifle, 
but  with  an  underlying  meaning." 


CHAPTER   XI 
The  Old  Home 

It  will  be  seen  that  our  young  friend  Oliver  con- 
tinued his  correspondence  (and  took  pains  with  the 
style  of  it)  with  the  lady  who  had  written  to  him 
from  the  country.  It  will  be  noticed  also  that  she 
had  followed  her  first  gift  by  another,  on  behalf  of 
those  suffering  people  whom  as  an  author  he  came 
to  know  in  the  queer  streets  of  life.  It  is,  I  think, 
to  Oliver's  credit  that  he  built  up  a  rather  beautiful 
picture  in  his  imagination  of  this  rural  benefactress. 
One  or  two  phrases  in  his  letter  to  her  may  have 
a  ring  of  insincerity,  but  that  is  because  a  literary 
man's  letter,  written  with  a  touch  of  what  we  call 
"style,"  always  seems  slightly  false  to  people  of 
this  day,  whose  letter-writing  is  more  slovenly  and 
colloquial.  I  defend  the  character  of  Oliver  by 
saying  that  he  was  perfectly  sincere  in  his  gratitude 
and  in  his  devotion.  He  told  the  plain  truth  when 
he  said  that  often  as  he  went  about  in  London 
the  vision  of  a  beautiful  face  and  the  memory  of 
a  charming  name — Virginia  Garland's — haunted 
him.  In  his  imaginative  way  he  made  a  little 
idyll  about  her  in  his  heart.  She  was  his  dream- 
lady,  vague   and    mystical,  whom  he   worshipped 

71 


72       Oliver's  Kind  Women 

as  young  Dante  his  Beatrice,  who  was  not  more 
familiar  in  the  flesh.  Yet,  tliough  he  made  a  little 
shrine  for  her  in  his  heart,  he  was  not  precluded 
from  intercourse  of  a  more  human  kind  with  other 
women. 

To  return  to  his  letter.  I  call  attention  to  that 
phrase  in  which  he  says  that  he  will  not  give  an 
account  of  his  stewardship  regarding  the  lady's 
second  contribution  to  the  Oliver  Lumley  Charity 
Funds.  Personally,  I  do  not  think  he  was  called 
upon  to  present  a  debit  and  credit  account,  with 
items  nicely  set  down  and  balanced,  as  though  he 
were  a  chartered  accountant.  On  the  other  hand, 
I  fancy  his  conscience  glided  too  easily  to  one  of 
the  proverbs  which  the  devil  has  made  to  trap 
the  souls  of  men.  "  Charity  begins  at  home,"  said 
Oliver  when  he  fingered  that  crisp  five-pound  note, 
and  reflecting  that  his  father  was  an  overworked 
man,  that  his  mother  mended  too  many  garments, 
that  his  brother  Horace  led  a  humdrum  life,  and 
that  Galatea  had  few  pleasures,  he  decided  that 
his  flesh  and  blood  came  well  within  the  terms 
of  Virginia  Garland's  bequest. 

Setting  aside  the  origin  and  purpose  of  the 
money,  it  was  certainly  a  generous  instinct  which 
prompted  Oliver  to  give  a  great  "  treat "  to  his 
people ;  and  their  immense  pleasure  and  pride 
rewarded  him.  During  the  first  six  months  of  his 
residence  in  Barton  Street  he  had  seen  little  of 
his  family.     They  lived  but  a  three-halfpenny  tram- 


The  Old  Home  73 

car  ride  away  from  him,  yet,  in  his  mind's  eye,  it 
seemed  a  world  away.  He  had  entered  into  a  new 
world,  with  new  friends,  new  ideas,  new  manners. 

He  did  not  care — as  time  went  on  he  cared  less 
and  less — to  retrace  his  steps  even  for  an  hour  or 
two  and  go  back  to  that  house  in  Denmark  Hill, 
with  its  old  associations  of  a  mean  little  home-life. 
He  felt  that  it  dragged  him  down.  The  sight  of 
the  threadbare  carpets,  of  the  broken  springs  in  the 
big  armchair,  of  the  cheap  china  ornaments  on 
the  mantelpiece,  of  the  brown  earthenware  teapot 
hurt  him  almost  physically,  hurt  him  as  a  German 
oleograph  would  shock  the  eyeballs  of  a  Post- 
Impressionist. 

His  rare  appearance  in  Denmark  Hill  was  the 
cause  of  grief  beyond  words  to  his  mother.  She 
waited  for  him  like  a  sweetheart  her  lover.  Every 
unexpected  knock  at  the  door  made  her  heart 
jump  with  the  hope  of  "  There's  Oliver  !  "  Every 
tea-time  she  hoped  that  he  might  come  to  supper. 
When  every  supper  had  passed  she  buoyed  herself 
up  with  the  hope  that  he  would  come  to  tea  next 
day.  When  the  weeks  passed  and  he  did  not  come 
at  all,  she  was  miserable,  and  new  lines  crept  about 
her  eyes  and  mouth. 

Often  she  would  drop  her  sewing  and  sit  think- 
ing and  thinking,  in  a  brooding  way,  of  his  hand- 
some face  and  gaiety  of  heart  and  careless  ways. 
She  wrote  little  notes  to  him,  begging  him  to  come 
more  often,  pleading  for  the  sight  of  him.     When 


74        Oliver's  Kind  Women 

he  answered  them  it  was  often  on  a  postcard,  with 
just  a  line  :  "  Frightfully  busy  1  "  or  "  Hope  to  see 
you  soon." 

Mr.  Lumley  was  still  working  overtime,  to  pay 
that  pound  a  week  which  he  had  promised  for  a 
year.  It  made  supper-time  an  hour  later,  and,  for 
that  reason,  he  had  been  compelled  to  tell  his  wife 
the  cause  of  his  extra  industry.  He  took  some 
credit  to  himself,  as  he  had  every  right  to  do. 

"  I  am  glad  to  help  the  boy  in  his  career,"  he 
said  simply.  "  But  I  think  no  one  can  accuse  me 
of  not  being  a  devoted  father.  I  have  not  be- 
grudged the  sweat  of  my  brow." 

To  that  Mrs.  Lumley  replied  :  "  I  should  think 
not  indeed.  For  what  other  reason  do  we  bring 
children  into  the  world,  except  to  work  for  them 
and  love  them  ?  " 

This  seemed  a  hard  answer  to  Richard  Lumley. 
Just  for  a  moment  he  was  filled  with  a  kind  of 
unreasoning  hatred  against  his  own  son,  coupled 
with  an  intense  anger  with  his  wife  for  taking  all 
that  he  did  for  granted.  His  pallid  face  flushed, 
and  he  took  off  his  spectacles  and  rubbed  them 
nervously  with  his  handkerchief  Then  he  re- 
strained himself  from  uttering  bitter  words,  which 
he  knew  he  would  regret,  and  said,  meekly  enough, 
"  I  suppose  so,  my  dear." 

It  was  Galatea  who  said  the  bitter  words  without 
restraint.  She  accused  Oliver  of  having  forgotten 
his  family  and  of  being  ashamed  of  them.     She 


The  Old  Home  75 

had  a  "scene  "  with  her  mother  because  she  said 
that  Oliver's  heart  was  as  big  as  a  monkey-nut, 
and  that  he  had  the  selfish  vanity  of  an  actress  in 
musical  comedy. 

Galatea  had  become  the  typist  secretary  of  a 
patent  medicine  proprietor  in  the  City,  and  she 
suffered  from  typist's  headache,  so  that  when  she 
came  home  at  seven  o'clock  she  vowed  that  her 
hat  weighed  as  heavily  as  the  dome  of  St.  Paul's. 
As  she  confessed  frankly  to  her  mother,  after  a 
few  tears  and  much  contrition,  her  hard  sayings 
against  Oliver  were  caused  by  fiddle-string  nerves 
and  general  bad  temper  with  "  life  and  everything." 
Upon  this  plea  she  was  almost  forgiven,  though, 
as  Mrs.  Lumley  confided  to  Horace,  she  could  not 
understand  how  Galatea  could  say  such  cruel  and 
horrible  things  about  a  brother  so  good  and  kind 
as  Oliver. 

"  My  dear  mother,"  said  Horace  in  his  quiet  way, 
"  Galatea  does  not  mean  half  what  she  says,  and 
the  other  half  she  is  sorry  for.  Fortunately  I  am 
not  given  to  many  words,  so  I  am  saved  a  lot  of 
misery." 

But  though  Horace  did  not  use  many  words  he 
thought  a  good  deal,  and  Oliver  gave  him  cause 
for  anxiety. 


CHAPTER   XII 

Maids  and  Men 

Four  or  five  times  Horace  called  at  Barton  Street, 
Westminster,  after  his  day's  work  in  the  City,  in 
the  hope  of  smoking  a  pipe  with  his  brilliant 
brother.  But  only  once  did  he  find  Oliver  in  his 
rooms.  Mrs.  Trant,  the  landlady,  informed  him 
that  five  nights  out  of  six  "  the  young  gentleman  " 
put  on  a  starched  shirt  and  went  to  places  which, 
to  her  mind,  being  an  old-fashioned  body,  were  no 
better  than  they  should  be.  She  referred  to  "  them 
music-halls  and  such-like,"  which  were  the  ruination 
of  young  people,  putting  no  end  of  foolish  ideas 
into  their  heads.  Many  was  the  maidservant  she 
had  had  who  had  gone  straight  to  the  bad  from  the 
gallery  of  the  "  nine-o'clock  house."  She  had  got 
one  now  who  would  sing  flashy  songs  while  clean- 
ing the  boots,  and  whom  she  had  caught  imitating 
Marie  Lloyd  before  a  looking-glass  when  she  was 
supposed  to  be  making  the  beds.  In  duty  bound 
Mrs.  Trant  had  given  the  girl  "  what-for  "  and  sent 
her  down  to  the  kitchen  with  a  flea  in  her  ear. 

Upon  hearing  that  Horace  was  the  brother  of 
her  lodger,  she  confided  to  him  that  Mr.  Oliver 
was  most  irregular  with  his  payments  and  owed 
her  for  eight  weeks'  board  and  lodging. 

76 


Maids  and  Men  77 

"  If  it  weren't  for  his  tongue,  which  could  talk 
the  hind  leg  off  a  donkey,"  said  the  landlady,  "  I 
wouldn't  put  up  with  such  habits.  But  there — 
when  he  puts  on  that  smile  of  his  and  begins  his 
artful  flattery,  he  makes  me  as  soft  as  butter.  I'm 
not  the  only  woman  he  makes  a  fool  of,  and  that's 
certain.  I'm  sure  I  pity  the  poor  girls  that  he 
casts  his  black  eyes  on." 

So  she  rattled  on  to  Horace,  at  the  hall  door, 
until  at  the  first  pause  he  lifted  his  hat  and  strode 
away,  filled  with  melancholy  forebodings  as  to 
Oliver's  future. 

But  one  evening,  after  several  visits,  he  found  his 
brother  actually  at  home.  He  was  giving  a  supper- 
party  to  some  friends,  who  happened  to  be  Miss 
Livvy  O'Brien  and  Miss  Doris  Fortescue.  Horace 
felt  overwhelmingly  embarrassed  when  he  stood  in 
the  doorway  of  the  front  parlour  and  saw  his  brother 
sitting  in  a  cane  arm-chair  before  the  fire,  with  an 
extremely  pretty  young  person  in  a  blue  dress  on 
his  knees,  with  her  arms  round  Oliver's  neck  and 
her  face  against  his  cheek,  while  at  the  piano  sat 
another  girl  in  a  fluffy  muslin  frock,  singing  a  little 
ballad  called  "  Catch  me !  Catch  me  !  Catch  me ! " 
in  a  piping  soprano.  A  cup  of  coffee  stood  at  the 
pianist's  right  hand  on  the  keyboard,  and  a  blue 
wreath  of  smoke  rose  from  a  half-burnt  cigarette 
suspended  between  the  ears  of  a  comical  china  cat 
on  the  music  rest. 

The  supper-table  had   not  been  cleared    away, 


78       Oliver's  Kind  Women 

and  was  littered  with  the  remnants  of  the  feast, 
which  displayed  the  bones  of  mutton  cutlets  in 
white  paper  frills. 

It  was  the  girl  at  the  piano — Doris  Fortescue 
— who  first  caught  sight  of  Horace's  grave,  em- 
barrassed face  in  the  doorway.  She  smudged  her 
notes,  stopped  singing  in  the  middle  of  a  line,  and 
said  with  the  prettiest  impudence  : 

"Is  this  the  ghost  of  Hamlet's  father,  or  an 
undertaker  to  measure  a  corpse  ?  Stranger,  speak, 
I  conjure  thee  !  " 

"  What  the  dickens  are  you  talking  about  over 
there,  little  one  ?  "  said  Oliver. 

He  released  himself  from  Livvy's  arms,  and 
turned  his  head  round.  When  he  saw  Horace  he 
uttered  a  sharp  exclamation  of  surprise. 

"  Horace,  by  Jove  !  " 

He  gave  Livvy  a  little  push,  and  stood  up  with 
a  reddening  face.  Then  he  laughed  boisterously, 
but  in  an  artificial  way.  It  would  be  difficult  to 
say  which  of  the  brothers  was  more  embarrassed. 

"  I'm  afraid  I  am  in  the  way,"  said  Horace.  "  I 
just  looked  in  to — er — see  how  you  are,  old  man. 
I'd  better  be  going." 

"  Oh,  rot !  Come  in  and  warm  your  toes." 
Oliver  pulled  himself  together. 

"  Let  me  introduce  you — Miss  O'Brien,  Miss 
Fortescue.  Livvy,  this  is  my  brother  Horace,  one 
of  the  best." 

"  How  do   you  do  ? "   said    Miss  Livvy,  taking 


Maids  and   Men  79 

Horace's  limp  hand  ;  and  looking  up  into  his  face 
with  mischievous  eyes.  "  What  a  nice  big 
brother  !  " 

"  Horace  ?  "  said  Miss  Doris  Fortescue,  swinging 
round  on  the  music-stool.  "  Delightful  name ! 
It  reminds  me  of  a  song  I  used  to  sing  : — 

"  Horace  was  a  curate, 
Horace  was  so  shy 
He  hardly  could  endure  it 
When  Kitty  winked  her  eye  I " 

The  real  Horace  blushed  up  to  the  roots  of  his 
hair,  fumbled  with  his  hat  and  stick,  and  again 
reiterated  his  opinion  that  he  had  better  be  going. 
But  Doris  Fortescue  would  not  hear  of  such  a 
thing. 

"  Going  I  "  she  cried.  "  My  dear  good  man,  you 
have  arrived  just  in  time  to  save  a  tragedy.  Livvy 
has  entirely  monopolised  your  baby  brother,  and 
I  was  left  all  on  my  lonesome,  and  horribly  out  in 
the  cold.     I  was  just  going  to  break  things." 

She  put  her  hands  on  Horace's  arm  and  led  him 
over  to  the  horsehair  sofa.  "  Here  we  will  rest 
awhile  under  the  greenwood  tree.  Upon  this 
mossy  bank  there  is  just  room  enough  for  you 
and  me," 

She  took  a  seat,  tucked  in  her  skirt,  and  patted 
a  cushion  as  an  invitation  to  Horace  to  make  use 
of  it.  He  sat  down  awkwardly,  and  stared  gravely 
at  the  carpet. 


8o        Oliver's  Kind  Women 

The  two  girls  studied  him  with  the  frankest 
curiosity,  their  quick  eyes  roving  over  his  rather 
worn,  pale  face,  over  his  shabby  suit  and  his  thick 
boots.  Then  they  laughed  together  very  merrily, 
so  that  Horace  prayed  that  the  floor  would  open 
and  swallow  him  up. 

"  Have  a  whisky,  old  man  ?  "  said  Oliver. 

"  No,  thank  you,  Roly,"  said  Horace.  "  I  can't 
stay  more  than  a  few  minutes." 

The  name  by  which  he  called  Oliver  was 
instantly  seized  upon  by  the  two  girls.  Livvy 
went  off  into  a  little  shriek  of  laughter.  "  Oh  how 
exquisite  !     Roly-poly  puddiny-pie  !  " 

"  Roly ! "  cried  Doris  Fortescue,  clapping  her 
hands.     She  began  to  sing  one  of  her  little  songs  : 

"A  frog  he  would  a-wooing  go — 

Hey,  ho,  said  Roly — 
Whether  his  mother  would  wish  him  or  no " 

She  did  not  complete  the  song,  but  finished  it 
with  a  peal  of  silvery  notes,  and  threw  a  cushion 
at  Oliver,  who  caught  it  just  in  time  to  save  a 
candlestick. 

"  How  perfectly  it  fits  the  character  of  our  dear 
Oliver ! "  said  Livvy,  who  was  kneeling  on  the 
floor,  with  her  hands  on  Oliver's  knees.  "  How 
often  he  goes  a-wooing,  whether  his  mother  would 
wish  it  or  no  ! " 

So  they  prattled  on,  and  Doris  assured  Horace 
that  she  would  be   eternally  grateful  to  him  for 


Maids  and  Men  8i 

having  revealed  that  precious  nickname,  which  she 
would  never,  never  forget. 

Horace  sat  silent.  He  found  both  these  young 
ladies  remarkably  unconventional.  Never  in  his 
life  had  he  been  in  the  same  room  with  such  girls. 
At  first  he  was  half  scared.  He  felt  that  it  was 
impossible  for  him  to  foresee  what  they  would  do 
next.  He  had  alarming  forebodings.  He  was 
filled  with  a  profound  anxiety  for  his  brother 
Oliver,  who  had  fallen  into  the  company  of  these 
dangerous  young  creatures. 

But  gradually  the  sprightliness  of  Miss  Livvy 
and  Miss  Doris,  and  their  overflowing  good  humour, 
made  him  feel  less  ill  at  ease.  Their  utter  lack  of 
shyness  and  self-consciousness  relieved  his  own 
bashfulness.  Yet  he  blushed  like  a  schoolboy 
when  Doris  Fortescue,  sitting  rather  close  to  him 
on  the  horsehair  sofa,  confessed  that  a  delicious 
dreaminess  was  taking  possession  of  her  little  body 
and  soul,  and  laying  her  head  against  his  shoulder, 
begged  him  to  tell  her  a  ghost  story  while  the  fire- 
light flickered  in  the  grate. 

Horace  caught  a  glance  from  Oliver's  eyes  in 
which  there  was  a  sly  amusement.  He  was  sitting 
up  stiffly  and  awkwardly  and  wishing  to  Heaven 
that  the  young  lady  would  remove  her  fluffy  head 
from  his  shoulder.  He  protested  that  he  knew  no 
ghost  story,  nor  any  other  kind  of  story,  and  again 
reiterated  his  statement  that  he  must  be  going. 
But  Doris  Fortescue  took  his  hand,  and  fondled  it 
6 


82       Oliver's  Kind  Women 

in  her  lap,  vowing  that  he  would  be  the  beastliest 
kind  of  beast  if  he  broke  up  the  harmony  of  the 
evening,  and  her  blessed  sense  of  peacefulness. 

It  was  Livvy  who  told  a  story.  It  was  the  story 
of  an  adventurous  love  affair  with  a  young  actor 
in  the  provinces  who  had  persecuted  her  with  his 
attentions  until  she  consp  red  with  the  rest  of  the 
company  to  make  him  a  laughing-stock.  Miss 
Livvy  tolJ  the  story  with  a  wealth  of  dramatic 
detail,  as  she  sat  on  a  footstool  with  Oliver  as  her 
head-rest.  In  the  excitement  of  the  story  her 
Irish  accent  became  more  marked,  and  her  dark 
eyes  danced  with  merriment.  The  dreaminess  of 
Doris  was  dispelled  by  her  friend's  narrative,  and 
she  laughed  quite  hysterically  at  the  end  of  it, 
so  that  the  springs  of  the  sofa  creaked  under  her, 
jerking  Horace  up  and  down  as  though  he  were  on 
wires.  He  was  caught  up  also  by  the  infectious- 
ness of  her  laughter,  and  his  dry  "  Ha !  ha  !  "  was 
like  the  croak  of  a  raven  to  the  rippling  mirth 
of  these  two  nightingales. 

"  A  miracle ! "  cried  Livvy  when  her  story 
finished.  "  I  have  put  a  smile  on  to  the  face  of 
your  big  brother,  Roly,  dear  infant.  Sure,  I  thought 
he  would  always  be  as  grave  as  an  undertaker !  " 

"  I  won't  have  you  say  unkind  things  about  his 
face,"  said  Doris,  turning  round  on  the  sofa,  and 
looking  at  Horace.  "  It  is  a  very  nice  face,  a  very 
handsome  face.  As  old  Shakespeare  says,  we  shall 
never  look  upon  his  like  again." 


Maids  and  Men  83 

It  was  then  that  Horace  struggled  up  to  go,  and 
released  himself  from  Miss  Fortescue's  affectionate 
clasp.  Oliver,  who  had  been  enjoying  himself 
enormously  in  a  quiet  way,  by  watching  his 
brother's  behaviour,  saw  him  out  to  the  front  door, 
and  asked  him  in  a  whisper  what  he  thought  of 
the  girls. 

"  Remarkable  young  women,"  said  Horace 
gravely.     "  I  advise  you  to  be  careful,  old  man." 

"  They're  as  harmless  as  doves,"  said  Oliver. 
"  Well,  good-bye,  old  chap.  Glad  you  came.  I 
will  go  over  to  Denmark  Hill  in  a  day  or  two." 

He  watched  his  brother  stride  down  the  street, 
and  noticed  with  a  touch  of  pity  how  shabby  he 
looked,  and  how  his  shoulders  were  humped  by 
years  of  office  work.  "  Poor  old  Horace  ! "  he 
thought,  as  he  shut  the  door.  And  as  Horace 
walked  to  the  nearest  tram  to  Denmark  Hill  he 
thought,  "  Poor  old  Oliver !  I  am  afraid  he  is 
running  into  danger.  What  amazing  young 
women  !  .  ,  .  I  wish  he  did  not  owe  for  all  that 
rent." 

He  did  not  tell  his  mother  or  father  the  full 
details  of  that  evening  v^'ith  Oliver  in  Barton  Street, 
but  he  rejoiced  Mrs.  Lumley's  heart  by  telling  her 
that  Oliver  had  promised  to  come  over  to  see  them 
very  soon. 


CHAPTER    XIII 

The    Generous    Heart 

On  the  rare  days  when  Oliver  was  able  to  tear 
himself  away  from  those  serious  studies  of  life, 
in  order  to  visit  his  old  home,  he  came  like  a  god 
out  of  the  machine  to  the  house  in  Rosemary 
Avenue. 

Not  like  Horace  did  he  use  the  humble  tramway. 
He  came  in  the  magnificence  of  a  motor-cab.  The 
noise  of  its  panting  petrol-tank,  and  all  its  glorious 
rattle  and  roar,  as  it  pulled  up  in  front  of  Number  33, 
caused  some  of  the  neighbours  to  put  their  heads 
out  of  window  and  afterwards  to  comment  upon 
the  Lumleys'  "  successful  son." 

No  sound  was  more  joyous  to  the  ears  of  Mrs. 
Lumley  herself,  though,  after  her  warm  embrace, 
she  rebuked  Oliver  gently  for  his  extravagance. 

"  It  seems  such  dreadful  waste  of  money,"  she 
said,  "  when  the  tuppences  go  ticking  on  that  little 
machine.  They  are  hard  enough  to  earn,  and  so 
quick  to  run  away." 

But  Oliver  replied,  in  his  careless,  royal  way, 
that  with  him  time  was  money,  and  that  what 
saved  his  brain  saved  his  pocket. 

It  was  curious  that  each  member  of  Oliver's 
84 


The  Generous  Heart         85 

family  felt  a  little  ill  at  ease  when  he  came  back 
to  them.  The  splendour  of  his  appearance  seemed 
to  reproach  their  own  poverty.  Even  the  brilliance 
of  his  patent-leather  boots  made  the  drawing-room 
carpet  seem  more  threadbare.  The  beautiful 
creases  in  his  trousers  were  a  silent  contrast  to 
the  baggy  knees  of  Mr.  Lumley  and  Horace.  His 
conversation,  too,  gay  and  good-hearted  as  it  was, 
abashed  them  and  made  them  feel  uncomfortable. 
He  spoke  light-heartedly  of  tea-parties  at  the 
house  of  a  certain  Lady  Goldstein,  with  whom 
he  seemed  on  terms  of  intimate  friendship,  and 
described  in  his  humorous  way  the  foibles  of  the 
distinguished  men  and  women,  many  of  them 
titled,  whom  he  met  there. 

To  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Lumley  it  was  a  startling  thing 
that  their  boy  should  appear  on  terms  of  equality 
with  such  great  people,  but  that  he  .should  make 
fun  of  them  was  awe-inspiring.  Only  Galatea 
pretended  to  be  quite  unmoved  by  all  this  grandeur 
into  which  Oliver  had  made  his  way.  She  took  a 
kind  of  bitter  pleasure  in  reminding  her  brother  of 
the  days  when  he  had  inked  the  seams  of  his  boots, 
and  pleaded  with  her  to  sew  up  the  ends  of  his 
frayed  trousers.  She  also  exaggerated  the  contrast 
between  what  she  called  the  "  squalor  "  of  her  own 
life  as  a  typist  in  the  City  and  his  luxurious 
habits. 

One  such  scene  took  place  a  few  nights  after 
Horace's    visit    to    Barton    Street,    when    Oliver 


86       Oliver's  Kind  Women 

redeemed  his  promise  to  spend  an  evening  at 
home. 

Galatea  came  in  late.  She  had  had  to  fight  for 
a  tram  at  Blackfriars  in  a  downpour  of  rain.  Her 
boots  were  covered  with  mud,  her  skirt  was  be- 
draggled and  splashed,  and  she  looked  cold  and 
miserable. 

Oliver  was  sitting  in  the  one  arm-chair,  drawn 
close  to  the  fire.  He  had  been  giving  his  mother 
a  vivid  description  of  a  first  night  at  the  opera, 
for  which  he  had  obtained  a  ticket  from  a  friend. 
Galatea  overheard  a  sentence  or  two  about  the 
gorgeous  dresses  of  the  women.  She  took  off 
her  wet  hat,  and  stabbed  it  several  times  with  a 
long  pin. 

"  I  suppose  you  would  despise  those  women," 
she  said  in  a  hard  voice,  "  if  they  earned  their 
living  honestly,  and  had  to  wade  in  the  mud  and 
slush  of  life  ?  " 

"  My  dear  girl,"  said  Oliver,  "  if  they  had  to  do 
that  I  should  not  have  seen  them  at  the  opera. 
They  are  the  women  of  the  Smart  Set.  You 
should  see  all  their  diamonds,  by  Jove!  Simply 
blazing  !  " 

"Disgusting  vulgarity,  I  call  it,"  said  Galatea. 
"  And  they  are  all  loose-living  creatures." 

"  Oh,  no ! "  said  Oliver,  as  though  he  were 
intimately  acquainted  with  all  of  them.  "  That 
is  too  sweeping,  my  dear.  Some  of  them  are 
charming  women,  as  simple  as  possible.    Of  course 


The  Generous  Heart         87 

they  can't  help  being  rich.  They  were  just  born 
with  the  luck." 

"  They  were  born  bad,"  said  Galatea.  "  They 
are  rotten  at  the  heart,  as  greedy  as  vultures, 
as  selfish  as  cats,  and  utterly  vain  and  foolish." 

"  My  dear  child,"  said  Oliver,  with  the  severity 
of  an  elder  brother,  "  you  know  nothing  about 
them.  Talk  of  something  with  which  you  are 
more  familiar." 

"  Yes !  "  said  Galatea,  restraining  a  passion  of 
anger,  which  brought  a  swift  flush  to  her  face. 
"  I  will  talk  of  girls  like  myself,  who  do  the 
drudgery  of  life.  I  will  talk  of  the  horror  of 
typing  six  hours,  seven  hours,  nine  hours  a  day, 
until  one  has  an  iron  band  round  the  head,  bursting 
one's  brain.  I  will  talk  of  tea-shop  luncheons  for 
fivepence,  and  the  insulting  familiarity  of  City 
clerks  who  sit  in  the  same  room  at  the  office, 
and  the  struggle  for  the  tramcar  morning  and 
evening.  I  know  all  about  those  things.  I  am 
very  familiar  with  that  way  of  life  !  " 

She  spoke  with  such  intense  feeling,  and  her 
eyes  were  fired  with  such  a  fierce  light,  that  Oliver 
was  startled,  and  Mrs.  Lumley  said,  "  Hush,  my 
dear.     Why  speak  so  bitterly  ?  " 

"  Shall  I  tell  you  why  ?  " 

She  laughed  scornfully,  and  gave  a  swift,  straight 
glance  at  Oliver. 

"  It  is  because  I  come  home  to  find  one  of  my 
brothers  boasting  of  his  social  success,  and  con- 


88        Oliver's  Kind  Women 

descending  to  his  own  family,  as  though  they  were 
inferior  to  him.  And  all  the  while  I  drudge  and 
drudge,  in  order  to  add  a  few  shillings  to  the 
housekeeping  money,  while  Oliver — noble  fellow  ! 
— is  living  a  gay  life  without  helping  his  father 
or  mother  by  so  much  as  a  single  farthing !  There, 
the  truth  is  out  now  !  " 

The  truth  being  out,  she  burst  into  tears,  and 
went  hurriedly  into  the  next  room.  Certainly  her 
words  of  truth  were  painful.  They  left  Oliver 
rather  white,  and  with  two  lines  across  his  forehead 
which  were  only  visible  when  he  was  very  angry. 
Mrs.  Lumley  was  almost  in  tears  herself.  As 
though  Oliver  were  a  distinguished  stranger  who 
had  been  insulted  at  her  hearthside,  she  apologised 
for  Galatea's  behaviour. 

"  Her  nerves  have  gone  all  wrong.  The  poor 
girl  drinks  too  much  tea,  I  am  afraid,  and  that 
office  of  hers  is  warmed  by  hot-water  pipes.  Please 
do  not  take  her  words  to  heart,  my  dear  boy.  She 
has  a  great  love  and  admiration  for  you." 

"  It  seems  like  it,"  said  Oliver  drily. 

For  an  hour  or  two  he  was  rather  quiet  and 
thoughtful,  and  avoided  looking  at  Galatea's  red 
eyes  when  she  sat  at  the  supper-table.  But 
afterwards,  when  his  father  and  Horace  had 
come  in,  he  forced  himself  to  be  cheerful  and 
chatty,  and  then  made  a  proposal  which  put 
them  in  a  good  humour,  and  restored  his  self- 
complacency. 


The  Generous  Heart         89 

"  Look  here,  I  haven't  celebrated  my  modest 
success  in  literature  by  any  family  function.  What 
do  you  say  to  a  box  at  the  theatre — His  Majesty's — 
and  a  little  dinner  afterwards  at  Michel's  in  Soho  ? 
It  would  be  very  jolly,  wouldn't  it  ?  " 

"  Oh,  Oliver ! "  said  Mrs.  Lumley,  "  how  sweet  of 
you ! " 

"  My  dear  boy,"  said  his  father,  "  you  are  very 
good  and  kind.  But  wouldn't  it  cost  you  a  great 
deal  of  money  ?  Are  you  sure  you  can  afford  such 
an  expense  ? " 

"  Oh,  that's  all  right,"  said  Oliver  airily.  He 
added  as  an  afterthought  that  he  had  put  by  a 
little  sum  for  this  special  purpose.  He  did  not 
mention  that  it  was  Miss  Virginia  Garland's 
charity.  His  people  had  never  heard  of  Vir- 
ginia Garland,  so  it  was  no  use  going  into  that 
matter. 

His  father  had  a  new  objection. 

"  There  is  another  thing,"  he  said,  hesitating  a 
little,  as  though  slightly  embarrassed.  "  I  have 
not  an  evening  dress  suit.  As  you  know,  I 
have  never  had  much  time  for  the  social  side  of 
life." 

"  Same  here,"  said  Horace.  "  We  should  not 
do  you  credit  in  a  box,  Roly." 

Oliver  could  not  deny  that  a  white  shirt-front 
was  essential  in  such  a  position,  but,  not  to  be 
beaten,  he  said,  "  Very  well,  then,  if  you  will  be 
so  haughty,  we  will    get    a    row  of  seats  in  the 


90       Oliver's  Kind  Women 

dress-circle.  Strange  as  it  may  seem,  that  is  a 
place  in  which  you  needn't  dress." 

He  turned  to  Galatea  and  said,  "  You  will 
come,  won't  you,  Gally-pot?" 

It  was  a  peace-offering,  and  Galatea's  lips,  which 
had  been  rather  tremulous  after  her  tears,  softened 
into  a  smile. 

"  I  should  love  to.     But  how  about  a  frock  ?  " 

"  Oh,  any  old  thing  will  do,"  said  Oliver. 
"  Whatever  you  wear  you  will  be  the  prettiest 
girl  in  the  theatre." 

"  Bravo  ! "  said  Horace,  "  and  hear,  hear !  " 

This  tribute  to  his  sister's  beauty  put  him  into 
a  good  humour  with  Oliver  for  the  rest  of  the 
evening,  and  made  him  forget  a  serious  conver- 
sation which  he  had  decided  to  have  with  his 
brother  on  the  question  of  money-matters. 

Galatea  had  blushed  deeply  at  the  compliment, 
and  a  little  while  later  she  took  a  footstool  at 
Oliver's  knees,  and  stroked  his  hand,  as  a  silent 
plea  for  forgiveness. 

Oliver  was  now  in  good  spirits,  and  talked  a  long 
time  about  his  literary  schemes — of  the  great  novel 
which  was  taking  shape  in  his  brain,  and  of  the 
play  with  which,  one  day,  not  very  far  off,  he  was 
going  to  make  a  pile  of  money. 

"  There  is  nothing  like  the  drama  for  money- 
making  on  a  big  scale." 

When  he  went  back  to  Barton  Street,  as  eleven 
o'clock  struck,  he  had  talked  his  family  into  the 


The  Generous  Heart         91 

belief  that  he  was  on  the  high  road  to  fortune. 
Not  even  Galatea  doubted  that  he  would  soon  be 
driving  up  to  Rosemary  Avenue  in  a  motor-car 
of  his  own.  She  had  a  vision  of  him  in  a  fur- 
lined  coat,  costing  at  the  very  least  one  hundred 
guineas.  Curiously  enough,  as  Oliver  drove  back 
in  a  taxi  he  had  the  same  idea. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

Humiliation  of  a  Toung  Gentleman 

The  evening  at  the  theatre  with  his  family,  fol- 
lowed by  a  dinner  at  Michel's,  cost  Oliver  more 
than  five  pounds,  for  he  was  in  a  generous  mood, 
and  determined  to  "  do  "  his  people  well.  Fortu- 
nately, or  perhaps  unfortunately,  he  was  not  called 
upon  to  pay  for  the  dinner  there  and  then,  for 
M.  Michel  knew  the  young  gentleman  as  one  of 
his  regular  customers,  and  was  willing  to  hold  over 
the  bill. 

Oliver  had  put  on  his  beautiful  evening  clothes 
(with  the  velvet  collar  and  broad  silk  stripe),  and 
this  nobility  of  appearance  was  rather  discon- 
certing to  his  father  and  mother.  They  had  done 
their  best  to  rise  to  the  occasion,  but  Oliver  was 
rather  painfully  aware  that  his  father's  shirt-cuffs 
had  been  "  whiskered  "  in  the  wash,  and  that  his 
black  suit  looked  as  if  it  had  seen  much  service  at 
family  funerals. 

Horace  wore  his  City  clothes,  and  the  sleeves  of 
his  morning  coat  were  shiny  with  much  desk- 
polishing,  while  his  trousers  fell  into  curious  folds 
and  creases, 

Mrs.  Lumley  had  put  on  a  black  satin  dress, 
92 


Humiliation  of  a  Gentleman    93 

which  Oliver  remembered  as  her  best  gown  so  far 
back  as  his  childhood,  when  he  used  to  take  ad- 
vantage of  the  bedroom  cupboard  in  games  of  hide- 
and-seek  with  Horace  and  Galatea.  It  smelt 
strongly  of  camphor,  and  had  last  been  used  at 
the  marriage  of  Oliver's  aunt  Alice,  five  years 
ago. 

These  reminiscences  shocked  him.  The  extreme 
poverty  of  his  family  was  distressing  to  his  own 
pride.  Only  Galatea  was  consoling  in  her  appear- 
ance. She  was  wearing  a  simple  gown  of  cream 
silk,  cut  low  at  the  throat,  round  which  she  had  put 
a  little  string  of  cheap  pearls.  With  her  dark  hair 
looped  above  her  ears,  and  a  little  flush  of  excite- 
ment on  her  cheeks,  she  made  a  pretty  figure  as 
she  stood  in  the  vestibule,  and  Oliver  whispered 
his  praise. 

"  Well  done,  Gally-pot !     You  look  charming  !  " 

But  the  shabbiness  of  his  father  and  brother,  and 
the  old-fashioned  gown  of  his  mother,  filled  him 
with  a  sense  of  uneasiness.  He  hoped  fervently 
that  none  of  his  friends  would  be  in  the  theatre 
that  night.  As  it  happened.  Hardy  the  journalist 
came  in  at  that  very  moment. 

"  Hulloh,  Roly,  young  spark,"  he  said,  "what 
mischief  are  you  up  to  to-night?" 

Then  he  noticed  that  Oliver  had  people  v/ith 
him.  His  babe-blue  eyes  glanced  at  each  member 
of  the  family,  Oliver  knew  that  this  keen  student 
of  humanity  would  not  fail  to  notice  his  father's 


94       Oliver's  Kind  Women 

frayed  cuffs,  his  brother's  baggy  trousers  and  shiny 
elbows,  his  mother's  long-preserved  gown,  his 
sister's  home-made  frock.  Hardy  himself  wore 
an  opera  hat  tilted  rather  rakishly  at  the  back 
of  his  handsome  head,  a  long  motor-coat  reaching 
to  his  heels,  and  open  in  front,  so  that  it  revealed 
the  frilled  white  shirt  across  his  broad  chest.  He 
stood  three  inches  higher  than  Oliver,  and  was  a 
distinguished  figure  in  the  vestibule. 

"  Who  are  your  pals?  "  he  said,  as  Oliver  moved 
a  little  on  one  side  with  him. 

"  Oh,  friends." 

"Is  it  your  landlady's  family?  Funny  old 
frumps,  aren't  they  ?  The  old  boy  looks  very 
pleased  with  himself,  and  rather  awestricken  at  this 
gilded  hall." 

"  As  a  matter  of  fact,"  said  Oliver,  "  those  funny 
old  frumps  are  my  father  and  mother." 

His  face  was  very  red  with  anger  and  humiliation. 

Hardy  lifted  his  eyebrows,  and  then  gave  a  quiet 
laugh. 

"  I  say !     I'm  sorry !     Why  didn't  you  tell  me  ?  " 

He  was  very  cool,  and  only  slightly  disconcerted. 

"  What  a  charming  girl  that  is.     Your  sister?  " 

"  It  is,"  said  Oliver  stiffly. 

"  I  congratulate  you.     Introduce  me,  will  you?" 

Oliver  would  have  liked  to  refuse,  but  his  resent- 
ment was  softened  by  Hardy's  friendly  squeeze  of 
the  arm,  and  by  his  genuine  look  of  admiration  at 
Galatea.     He  took  him  over  to  the  family  group. 


Humiliation  of  a  Gentleman    95 

where  Hardy  made  honourable  amends  for  his 
indiscretion,  and  behaved  charmingly. 

To  Mr.  Lumley  he  said  :  "  I  am  an  old  school- 
fellow of  your  son,  sir.  I  was  delighted  to  meet 
him  again." 

"  Ah  !  "  said  Mr.  Lumley,  whose  face  lit  up  with 
pride,  "  my  son  has  a  brilliant  career  before  him. 
His  imaginative  gifts  are  a  constant  surprise  to  us." 

"  They  must  be  !  "  said  Hardy. 

He  made  some  amiable  and  flattering  remark  to 
Mrs.  Lumley,  and  then  turned  to  Galatea  with  a 
delightful  smile  and  admiring  eyes. 

"  I  suppose  you  are  very  fond  of  the  theatre  ?  " 

"  I  hardly  ever  go.     But  I  love  it." 

"  You  must  allow  me  to  send  you  some  tickets 
now  and  again,"  said  Hardy. 

Between  the  acts  Hardy  came  round  to  the 
dress-circle  with  a  big  box  of  chocolates  tied  up 
with  pale-blue  ribbon,  and  handed  them  to  Galatea. 
Until  the  curtain  went  up  again  he  stayed  chatting, 
and  was  so  respectful  to  Mr.  Lumley,  so  immensely 
impressed,  it  seemed,  with  Mr.  Lumley's  dramatic 
criticism  and  philosophical  remarks  on  the  great- 
ness of  Shakespeare,  so  friendly  in  his  attitude  to 
Horace,  and  so  chivalrous  to  Galatea,  that  Oliver 
almost  forgave  him  for  his  faux  pas  in  the  vestibule. 

At  the  end  of  the  second  act  he  came  to  say 
good-bye. 

"  I  have  a  little  dinner-party  on,  so  that  I  must 
be  getting  away  now." 


96        Oliver's  Kind  Women 

He  shook  hands  with  Mr.  Lumley,  and  assured 
him  that  he  would  remember  some  of  his  words, 
which  had  shed  an  entirely  new  light  upon  the 
character  of  Hamlet. 

"  Sir,"  said  Mr.  Lumley,  in  the  manner  of  Dr. 
Johnson,  "  I  lead  a  quiet  life,  but  Shakespeare 
has  given  me  some  knowledge  of  human  nature. 
I  am  glad  that  my  ideas  do  not  seem  to  you  quite 
worthless." 

"  On  the  contrary,"  said  Hardy  warmly  ;  "  on 
the  contrary,  my  dear  sir !  " 

He  took  Galatea's  hand,  and  held  it  for  a 
moment  longer  than  was  quite  necessary. 

"  I  hope  very  much  I  shall  see  you  again." 

Galatea  did  not  answer,  but  her  face  had  a 
deeper  colour,  and  when  Hardy  had  gone  Oliver 
noticed  that  his  sister's  eyes  were  strangely  lumi- 
nous, and  that  she  did  not  take  any  part  in  the 
family  conversation. 

Mr.  Lumley  launched  into  a  panegyric  of  their 
new  friend,  and  was  of  the  decided  opinion  that 
he  was  a  most  intelligent  and  respectable  young 
man.  Mrs.  Lumley  thought  that  he  was  the 
handsomest  young  gentleman  she  had  ever  seen, 
with  the  exception  of  some  one  whom  she  would 
not  mention.  The  proud  mother  woke  in  her  eyes, 
and  Oliver  smiled  at  her. 

"  Is  he  quite  sincere,  do  you  think  ?  "  asked  quiet 
old  Horace. 

Oliver  chuckled. 


Humiliation  of  a  Gentleman    97 

"  He  is  a  champion  poseur." 

It  was  then  that  Galatea  spoke  for  the  first  time 
after  Hardy's  good-bye. 

"  I  do  not  know  what  you  mean  by  '  poseur,'  but 
he  is  certainly  the  soul  of  kindness." 

"  Oh,  he  is  good-natured,"  said  Oliver.  "  Quite 
a  decent  fellow,  though  inclir.cd  to  put  on  airs. 
I'm  glad  you  like  him.  In  the  old  days  we  used 
to  call  him  Kiss-me- Hardy — aft:r  Nelson's  pal." 


CHAPTER   XV 
A  Lady  of  duality 

By  an  extraordinary  coincidence,  the  first  person 
who  met  the  gaze  of  the  Lumley  family  on  taking 
their  table  in  Michel's  restaurant  was  Hardy  him- 
self. He  was  sitting  in  a  corner  of  the  room  with 
three  men  and  one  woman,  who  were  all  laughing, 
as  though  one  of  them  had  made  an  excellent 
joke. 

It  was  the  lady  who  attracted  Galatea's  atten- 
tion while  Oliver  was  busy  with  the  bill  of  fare. 
She  seemed  hardly  older  than  Galatea  herself,  and 
was  as  fair  as  Galatea  was  dark.  She  had  hair  of 
pale  gold,  full  of  little  waves,  in  which  the  lights 
and  shadows  played.  Her  rather  long  mouth  with 
its  arched  lips  was  curved  into  a  satirical  smile, 
and  in  her  brown  eyes  there  was  a  dancing  light  of 
merriment.  She  had  a  long  straight  neck,  upon 
which  her  head  was  supported  like  a  flower  on  its 
stalk,  and  the  sleeves  of  her  dove-grey  gown  were 
short  enough  to  show  her  arms  bare  to  the  elbows. 
She  was  thin,  and  her  elbows  were  pointed,  but 
no  man  would  have  called  her  scraggy,  because 
she  had  a  softness  of  line  and  feature  which  just 
saved  her  from  being  angular.  She  was  playing 
98 


A  Lady  of  Quality  99 

with  a  cigarette — hardly  smoking  it ;  and  as  her 
right  arm  with  its  little  pointed  elbow  on  the 
white  tablecloth  swayed  to  and  fro  beneath  the 
curling  smoke,  there  was  a  glint  of  diamonds  on 
her  fingers  and  wrist. 

"  What  a  pretty  woman  ! "  said  Galatea,  and 
then  she  caught  her  breath  a  little  and  said,  "  Why, 
there  is  Mr.  Hardy  again  !  " 

The  eyes  of  the  Lumley  family  were  turned  to 
that  table  in  the  corner  of  the  restaurant.  Oliver 
gave  a  sharp  exclamation  and  flushed  up  to  the 
temples. 

With  that  strange  magnetism  of  the  human  eye 
the  gaze  of  the  Lumley  family  attracted  the 
attention  of  the  dinner-party  at  the  other  table. 
Hardy,  who  was  sitting  with  his  back  to  Oliver's 
people,  turned  round,  and  when  he  saw  them 
again  he  gave  a  start  of  surprise.  For  a  moment 
he  also  seemed  embarrassed  and  disconcerted. 
But  he  quickly  recovered  himself  and  gave  a 
smiling  greeting  to  them  all.  At  the  same  moment 
the  lady,  who  was  sitting  opposite  to  him,  looked 
towards  Oliver.  She  spoke  his  name  so  clearly 
that  her  words  could  be  heard  across  the  res- 
taurant. 

"  Why,  there  is  Roly  !  " 

She  raised  a  wine-glass,  touched  it  with  her  lips, 
and  smiled  across  to  him.  Then  her  eyes  roved 
upon  the  family  group,  with  the  frankest  curiosity, 
until    she    looked   again   at   Oliver   with   a   little 


loo     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

raising  of  the  eyebrows  as  though  to  say,  "  Who 
are  those  people  with  you  ?  " 

Oliver  returned  her  wine-glass  greeting.  Galatea 
could  see  that  he  was  trying  to  conceal  his 
nervousness.  His  hand  trembled  as  he  held  the 
menu  while  the  French  waiter  stood  by  his  side 
and  said,  "  Quel  vin,  monsieur?" 

"  Who  is  she  ?  "  asked  Galatea. 

"  That  is  Lady  Goldstein.  .  .  .  Strange  that  she 
should  be  here." 

"  Lady  Goldstein  !  " 

It  was  Mrs.  Lumley  who  made  the  exclamation, 
and  her  husband  and  Horace  showed  equal  sur- 
prise and  consternation  at  the  announcement. 
Many  times  Oliver  had  spoken  of  his  friendship 
with  Lady  Goldstein,  of  the  great  receptions  at 
her  town-house — he  always  spoke  of  her  "  town- 
house,"  as  though  she  had  a  mansion  in  the 
country — and  of  her  literary  evenings,  at  which  all 
the  most  distinguished  people  in  London  were 
present.  They  were  as  astonished  as  Oliver  to 
find  that  grand  lady  having  dinner  with  four  young 
men  in  a  Soho  restaurant. 

Mrs.  Lumley  became  rather  fluttered,  and 
smoothed  down  her  black  satin  gown.  She  re- 
gretted that  it  had  Iain  so  long  in  her  wardrobe 
that  its  creases  would  not  disappear.  Mr.  Lumley 
thrust  back  his  frayed  cuffs,  and  Horace  buttoned 
up  his  black  morning  coat  to  conceal  his  shabby 
waistcoat. 


A  Lady  of  Quality        loi 

"  Does  she  call  you  Roly  ?  "  asked  Galatea. 

"  Why  not  ?  " 

Oliver  spoke  irritably,  and  his  face  was  gloomy. 
He  was  sorry  for  having  brought  his  people  to 
town.  They  were  so  obviously  suburban,  so 
utterly  shabby-genteel.  How  on  earth  could  he 
get  them  out  of  the  restaurant  without  introducing 
them  to  Lady  Goldstein  ?  She  was  so  satirical,  so 
critical  of  dress,  so  keen-witted  and  sharp-tongued, 
that  he  would  never  hold  up  his  head  in  her 
drawing-room  if  she  discovered  that  these  people 
were  his  own  family.  Perhaps  she  knew  already. 
Hardy  would  give  him  away.  Her  rippling 
laughter  made  him  flush  crimson  again.  No 
doubt  she  was  laughing  at  the  discovery  already. 

Once  she  had  questioned  him  about  his  family, 
and  he  had  told  white  lies  to  her,  and  represented 
his  father  as  a  City  merchant.  She  would  see 
now  that  he  was  only  a  shabby  clerk.  What  on 
earth  had  ,  made  her  come  to  this  restaurant  ? 
Oliver  knew  the  men  with  her.  One  was  Lord 
Hugh  Marcroft,  a  boy  just  down  from  Oxford. 
The  other  was  Gilbert  Verney  of  the  Wastrels. 
The  third  man  was  Halliday  Wing,  a  black-and- 
white  artist  with  a  hobby  for  painting  im- 
pressionistic pictures  which  nobody  would  buy. 
They  belonged  to  the  Goldstein  crowd  and  were 
Katherine's  particular  pets  and  slaves.  He  could 
expect  no  mercy  from  them  if  they  were  intro- 
duced to  his  family. 


I02     Oliver's   Kind  Women 

Young  Marcroft  had  his  monocle  stuck  in  his 
eye,  and  was  staring  over  at  Galatea.  Then  he 
turned  to  Lady  Goldstein  and  said  something  in  a 
quizzing  way  which  made  her  smile.  She,  too, 
looked  across  at  Galatea  and  then  at  his  father 
and  mother.  Oliver  knew  that  her  quick  eyes 
would  notice  every  detail.  He  was  ashamed  of 
his  own  family,  and  then  was  horribly  ashamed 
of  being  ashamed.  It  made  him  miserable  during 
the  meal.  He  sat  moody  and  silent,  except  when 
he  spoke  so  irritably  to  the  waiters  that  he  made 
his  father  and  mother  uncomfortable  and  brought 
a  few  words  of  protest  from  Galatea. 

And  his  people  did  not  understand  the  reason 
for  his  irritability.  Mrs.  Lumley  thought  her  dear 
boy  must  be  feeling  tired.  No  doubt  his  brain 
was  fagged  with  too  much  literary  work.  Mr. 
Lumley  agreed  that  the  mental  strain  of  inventing 
new  plots  must  be  very  severe.  He  was  curious 
to  know  the  characters  and  occupations  of  other 
people  in  the  restaurant ;  and  when  Oliver  pointed 
out  a  fairly  well-known  actor,  a  journalist,  and  a 
minor  poet — the  latter  was  picking  his  teeth  in 
a  dreamy  way,  and  jotting  down  lines  on  the  back 
of  an  envelope — he  said  that  he  was  much  obliged 
to  Oliver  for  giving  him  a  peep  into  such  a  hostelry 
of  the  artistic  professions.  He  regretted  that  as  a 
young  man  he  had  not  come  West  at  times  during 
the  luncheon  hour,  instead  of  always  taking  his 
meals  at  an  a  la  mode  beef  shop  in  Mincing  Lane. 


A  Lady  of  Quality        103 

At  the  end  of  the  meal  Horace  said,  "  No  objec- 
tion to  putting  on  a  pipe,  I  suppose  ?  "  and  without 
waiting  for  an  answer,  loaded  up,  struck  a  match,  and 
puffed  away  quietly,  while  he  watched  his  brother 
through  the  haze  of  smoke.  He  could  not  make 
Oliver  out.  Something  had  upset  him.  That  was 
quite  certain. 

Just  then  he  noticed  a  sudden  colour  creep  into 
Galatea's  cheeks,  and  he  was  puzzled  to  account 
for  her  emotion,  until  he  saw  that  Hardy  had  left 
the  other  table,  and  was  crossing  the  room  towards 
them. 

He  stood  with  his  hand  on  the  back  of  Oliver's 
chair,  looking  down  upon  them  with  his  pleasant, 
whimsical  smile.  His  eyes  rested  rather  steadily  on 
Galatea. 

"  Curious,  meeting  again  like  this  !  Our  friend 
Oliver  here  would  call  it  the  long  arm  of  coinci- 
dence, and  one  more  proof  that  fact  is  stranger 
than  fiction,  eh  ?  " 

He  put  his  hand  on  Oliver's  shoulder. 

"  Roly,  you  are  commanded  to  the  Royal 
presence." 

"  How  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  I  mean  that  her  ladyship  desires  speech  with 
you.  She  has  been  trying  to  catch  your  eye  this 
twenty  minutes,  but  you  were  looking  straight 
down  your  nose." 

Oliver  hesitated,  and  did  not  seem  inclined  to 
move. 


I04     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

"  We'll  change  seats,"  said  Hardy. 

Oliver  rose  rather  awkwardly,  and  then  glanced 
over  to  Lady  Goldstein.  She  beckoned  him,  with  a 
"  Come  hither  "  in  her  eye,  and  he  could  not  resist 
the  invitation.  As  he  left  the  table  Hardy  took 
his  chair,  and,  speaking  to  Galatea,  said,  "  Well, 
what  do  you  think  of  Michel's?" 

Oliver  crossed  the  room,  and  Lady  Goldstein 
stretched  out  her  hand,  and  gave  him  her  little 
finger  to  shake. 

"  Rude  boy.  Why  have  you  ignored  me  all  this 
time?" 

"  Ignored  you  ?  Why,  I  bowed  to  you  in  my 
best  style  !  " 

He  sat  down,  and  brushed  away  Hardy's  bread- 
crumbs. 

"  I  did  not  expect  to  see  you  here." 

"  No  ?  "  said  Lady  Goldstein.  "  Surely  this  is  a 
perfectly  respectable  place  ?  " 

"  Oh,  perfectly  !  " 

"  Well,  then  ?  " 

She  challenged  him  with  her  eyes  for  an  expla- 
nation. 

Oliver  was  unable  to  give  one,  except  that  Soho 
was  "  a  far  cry  "  from  Pont  Street,  and  not  nearly 
so  elegant. 

"  My  dear  child,"  said  Lady  Goldstein,  who 
perhaps  was  two  years  older  than  Oliver  himself, 
"don't  you  think  I  may  sometimes  be  allowed  to 
escape  from  my  husband's  flunkeys  and  from  the 


A  Lady  of  Quality        105 

French  maid  my  husband  provides  for  me,  and 
from  my  husband's  Chippendale  and  Sheraton 
furniture,  and  from  the  amiable  but  somewhat  dull 
society  of  my  husband's  German  relatives  ?  " 

She  spoke  with  a  serious  air,  as  though  demand- 
ing a  serious  answer,  but  as  she  blew  a  puff  of 
cigarette  smoke  through  her  fingers  she  laughed  at 
her  own  words. 

"  Oh,  those  flunkeys  !  It  is  a  tremendous  relief 
not  to  have  them  standing  behind  one's  chair,  and 
handing  things  over  one's  shoulder,  and  saying, 
'Yes,  my  lady — No,  my  lady.'  One  of  them  is 
named  Smithers,  and  the  other  Brown.  I  think 
I  hate  Smithers  worst.  He  was  once  butler  to 
a  bishop,  and  has  such  portentous  solemnity.  I 
feel  I  shock  him  by  my  levity  every  time  I  laugh. 
I  can  feel  his  hard,  grave  eyes  fixed  upon  my  back- 
bone every  time  I  sit  down  to  table  in  evening 
clothes." 

It  was  a  habit  of  Lady  Goldstein  to  indulge  in 
little  monologues  of  excitable  eloquence,  and  she 
ignored  such  interruptions  as  Marcroft's  "  By  Jove, 
now,  really  ?  " 

"  Before  I  married  Goldy,  and  when  I  wrote 
Society  paragraphs  for  the  papers,  I  used  to  come 
to  some  of  these  restaurants  in  Soho  with  the 
Fleet  Street  boys.     Hardy  was  one  of  them  !  " 

She  gave  a  long-drawn  sigh,  and  looked  round 
the  stuffy  little  restaurant,  and  away  to  the  red- 
baize  window  blinds,  beyond  which  there  was  the 


io6     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

liojht  of  street  lamps  and  the  noise  of  cabs  and 
nnotor-cars. 

'•  1  feel  like  a  bird  escaped  out  of  a  gilded  cage 
into  the  ragged  old  nest  in  the  hedge-row.  It  is 
much  more  fun  in  the  hedge-row." 

Then  she  laughed  and  said,  "  How  is  that  for  a 
simile?  " 

"  Good  Lord  ! "  said  Oliver,  "  you  were  never  in 
Fleet  Street,  were  you  ?     Hardy  never  told  me." 

He  was  astonished  beyond  measure,  and  filled 
with  a  curious  sense  of  disappointment.  He  had 
always  thought  that  Katherine  Goldstein  belonged 
to  an  old  aristocratic  family. 

"  Of  course  I  was  !  And  a  very  smart  journalist 
I  made,  though  I  say  so  as  shouldn't.  I  used  to 
dream  of  'scoops,'  and  when  I  earned  three  pounds 
a  week  I  thought  I  was  on  the  high  road  to  fortune. 
As  it  happened,  I  was  not  wrong,  for  at  the  end 
of  the  road  I  met  Goldy.  Hence  these  glittering 
baubles." 

She  flashed  the  rings  in  the  light  of  a  candle  on 
the  table,  and  said,  "  Silly  trash  !  " 

Lord  Hugh  Marcroft  was  willing  to  bet  her  any 
money  that  she  would  not  like  to  return  to  the 
squalor  of  Fleet  Street.  As  for  those  bits  of 
glittering  stone,  he  knew  from  Goldy  himself  that 
she  had  a  barbaric  passion  for  them.  He  was 
sorry  to  see  a  young  lady  so  deliberately  insincere. 

Gilbert  Verney — whom  Oliver  had  met  at  the 
Wastrels  Club  on  the  famous  Thursday  nights — 


A  Lady  of  Quality        107 

chuckled  in  his  hoarse  way,  and  gave  one  of  his 
portentous  winks. 

"  Funny  thing.  People  who  have  captured  the 
oof  bird  always  despise  the  creature.  I  have  been 
setting  snares  for  it  these  ten  years  past.  It  always 
hops  beyond  my  reach.     Sad  I     Sad  !  " 

"  You  raven  !  "  said  Lady  Goldstein,  "  I'm  tired 
of  your  croaks.  I  have  introduced  you  to  dozens 
of  rich  girls  with  a  view  to  matrimony." 

"  My  face  frightens  'em,"  said  Gilbert  Verney. 
"  They  flutter  away  to  high  perches." 

He  gazed  mournfully  into  his  tankard  of  beer. 

"  We  all  owe  a  deep  debt  of  gratitude  to  our 
dear  Lady  Katherine  here,"  said  Halliday  Wing, 
the  black-and-white  artist. 

"  Explain  !  "  said  Lady  Goldstein.  "  I  adore 
gratitude." 

"  She  invites  the  children  of  poverty  to  her 
sumptuous  tea-parties.  In  our  muddy  boots  we 
are  able  to  stroll  upon  velvet  pile  carpets.  In  our 
threadbare  trousers  we  sit  upon  real  Chippendale. 
The  noble  condescension  of  her  flunkeys  is  like 
a  benediction  to  our  half-starved  souls." 

Gilbert  Verney  chuckled  in  the  depths  of  his 
big  tankard,  and  young  Marcroft  laughed  in  his 
high-pitched  boy's  voice. 

"  Is  that  sarcasm  ? "  asked  Lady  Goldstein 
severely.  "  Don't  forget,  young  man,  that  owing 
to  my  influence  Goldy  has  bought  three  of  your 
feeble  paintings  at  exorbitant  prices." 


io8     Oliver's   Kind  Women 

"Which  now  hang  in  the  butler's  pantry  and 
the  French  maid's  bedroom,"  said  Mr.  Halliday 
Wing,  stroking  his  silky  Vandyke  beard. 

So  they  rattled  on,  talking  sheer  nonsense  Hkc 
children  in  the  big  nursery  of  life.  Under  cover 
of  a  mock  quarrel  between  Halliday  Wing  and  the 
Marcroft  boy,  Lady  Goldstein  had  some  private 
conversation  with  Oliver. 

"  That  is  a  pretty  sister  of  yours,  Roly." 

"  How  did  you  know  it  was  my  sister  ?  " 

Oliver  was  abashed  by  Lady  Goldstein's  know- 
ledge. He  was  tempted  to  deny  that  he  had  any 
blood-relationship  with  his  guests  at  the  other 
table.  His  old  shame  about  their  shabbiness  crept 
over  him  again. 

"  Hardy  told  me.  He  is  tremendously  taken 
with  her.  You  must  bring  her  to  tea  with  me. 
And  your  father  and  mother  too." 

"  They  lead  very  quiet  lives,"  said  Oliver. 

Lady  Goldstein's  frank  eyes  were  fixed  upon 
him  with  a  searching  look. 

"  You  are  a  strange  boy,"  she  said.  "  I  cannot 
make  you  out." 

She  turned  to  Lord  Hugh  Marcroft  and  Halliday 
Wing. 

"  It  is  time  to  go  back  to  my  golden  cage.  The 
male  bird  will  have  ruffled  feathers. 

Gilbert  Verney  closed  the  lid  of  his  tankard  and 
said,  "Sad!    Sad  I  " 

Halliday  Wing  put  on  her  cloak.     M.  Michel 


A  Lady  of  Quality        109 

bowed  low  before  her  as  she  passed,  as  though  a 
Queen  had  visited  his  restaurant. 

She  stopped  at  Oliver's  table,  where  Hardy  was 
still  sitting. 

The  Lumley  family  had  brightened  up.  Galatea, 
with  deep  roses  in  her  cheeks,  was  laughing  at 
Hardy's  whimsical  anecdotes.  Horace  was  puffing 
at  his  pipe  with  a  quiet  smile  of  thorough  enjoy- 
ment. Mr.  and  Mrs.  Lumley  were  beaming  at  the 
handsome  fellow  who  was  entertaining  them  with 
his  stories  of  life  up  and  down  the  world.  They 
were  surprised  when  Lady  Goldstein  bent  forward 
to  Galatea  and  said  : 

"  I  should  be  so  glad  to  know  Oliver  Lumley's 
sister.  Has  he  ever  spoken  to  you  of  Lady 
Goldstein  ? " 

''  Shall  I  make  the  formal  introduction  ? "  said 
Hardy,  laughing  at  this  somewhat  unconventional 
approach. 

"  Oh,  your  ladyship,"  said  Mrs.  Lumley,  "  you 
have  been  very  kind  to  my  dear  boy." 

"  No.     He  has  been  kind  to  me." 

Mr.  Lumley  had  stood  up,  and  was  bowing  in  an 
old-fashioned  way.  Lady  Goldstein  shook  hands 
with  him,  and  as  she  released  his  hand  one  of  his 
frayed  cuffs,  which  was  fastened  on  to  his  shirt 
with  a  button,  fell  on  to  his  plate. 

"  Pardon  me,  my  lady  !  "  said  the  poor  gentleman, 
immensely  embarrassed  by  this  accident.  He 
picked  up  the  cuff  and  put  it  into  his  tail  pocket, 


no      Oliver's  Kind  Women 

and  Oliver,  who  stood  by,  saw  that  young  Marcroft 
was  struggling  to  preserve  a  decent  gravity,  and 
that  the  right  side  of  Gilbert  Verney's  face  was 
contorted  by  a  grotesque  wink. 

Oliver  prayed  that  the  floor  of  Michel's  restaurant 
might  open  up  and  swallow  him — but  his  prayer 
was  not  granted. 

Lady  Goldstein  herself  seemed  to  be  entirely 
oblivious  of  this  little  incident,  and  speaking  in  a 
gracious  way  to  Mrs.  Lumley  hoped  that  she 
would  bring  her  daughter  to  31,  Pont  Street  one 
afternoon. 

"  Your  ladyship  is  most  kind,"  said  Mrs.  Lumley. 
"  But  we  are  very  humble  folk." 

"  I  hope  I  am  not  without  humility  myself,"  said 
Lady  Goldstein,  and  then  laughed  in  the  simplest 
way  at  her  own  words.  Her  laughter  was  infec- 
tious, and  all  but  Oliver,  who  stood  on  one  side, 
getting  hot  and  cold,  joined  in  her  gaiety.  Then 
putting  her  hand  on  young  Marcroft's  arm,  and 
with  a  smiling  bow  which  included  all  the  Lumley 
family,  she  passed  out  of  the  restaurant,  leaving 
behind  an  effect  of  radiance  and  charm. 


CHAPTER   XVI 

Mental  Arithmetic 

Oliver  found  that  life  as  a  bachelor  in  London 
was  amazingly  expensive.  He  discovered  also 
that  the  career  of  a  man  of  letters  is  not  a  high- 
way paved  with  gold  between  a  hedge-row  of 
roses. 

On  the  contrary,  it  was  a  pebbly  road  which 
wore  out  his  patent-leather  boots  literally  and 
symbolically,  and  there  were  many  spiky  thorns 
along  the  way  which  pricked  him  most  horribly. 
At  first  he  had  started  out  with  a  fair  amount 
of  luck.  A  good  many  of  his  short  stories  had 
been  accepted,  and  editors  had  asked  for  more. 
What  encouraged  him  still  further  was  the  ac- 
cepting from  time  to  time  of  essays  on  life  by  a 
new  Review.  Reckoning  his  earnings  for  the 
first  nine  months  at  Barton  Street  he  worked  them 
out  on  paper  as  very  nearly  a  hundred  and  fifty 
pounds.  With  his  father's  allowance  of  a  pound 
a  week  it  should  have  been  enough  to  live  on 
with  some  comfort,  (He  left  Virginia  Garland's 
bounty  out  of  his  reckoning.)  But  the  figures  on 
paper  were  not  realised  in  fact.  It  was  necessary 
to  wait  for  the  publication  of  his  stories  until  he 
III 


112     Oliver's   Kind  Women 

received  payment,  and  in  many  cases  he  had  to 
wait  a  good  long  time. 

Worse  still,  the  new  Review  had  printed  his 
essays,  but  they  had  not  paid  for  them.  His 
numerous  visits  to  the  office  had  resulted  in  one 
audience  by  the  editor,  who  was  charming  and 
most  appreciative  of  his  work,  by  whom  he  was 
referred  to  the  cashier.  The  cashier,  being  a  busy 
man,  was  invariably  "  engaged "  or  "  out,"  when 
Oliver  called  again.  The  office  boy,  though  a 
youth  of  some  haughtiness,  admitted  that  he  was 
powerless  to  make  literary  payments  out  of  the 
petty  cash.     Oliver's  letters  remained  unanswered. 

Ten  pounds  for  writing  an  advertisement  of  a 
new  restaurant — Hardy  had  put  it  in  his  way — 
saved  him  from  imminent  ruin.  Another  twenty 
pounds  for  a  series  of  lurid  detective  stories  for 
The  Boy's  Budget  gave  him  a  few  weeks'  respite 
from  the  pressing  demands  of  numerous  creditors, 
of  whom  his  landlady  was  the  most  vexatious. 
He  borrowed  ten  pounds  from  Hardy,  and  five 
pounds  from  Gilbert  Verney,  and  he  owed  several 
half-sovereigns  to  other  members  of  the  "  Wastrels," 
besides  having  a  fairly  heavy  account  against  him 
at  the  club  on  account  of  liquid  refreshment. 

It  would  be  wearisome  to  analyse  other  debts 
incurred  by  this  rising  young  literary  man,  but 
they  were  numerous  and  pressing  enough  to  make 
him  start  rather  violently  if  any  friend  happened 
to  touch  him  on  the  shoulder  in  the  street. 


Mental  Arithmetic         113 

High-spirited  though  he  was  by  nature,  and  of 
a  sanguine  temperament,  he  was  haunted  by  a  real 
anxiety  when  his  creative  gifts  showed  signs  of 
flagging.  Plots  did  not  come  so  easily  to  him, 
and  he  found  it  increasingly  difficult  to  ring  the 
changes  on  the  familiar  situations  used  and  used 
again  by  magazine  story-tellers.  He  had  got  into 
hot  water  more  than  once  for  going  too  close  to 
the  original.  One  letter  from  an  editor  used  an 
ugly  word.  It  was  "  plagiarism,"  and  the  editor 
was  "almost  of  opinion  that  he  could  indict  him 
for  obtaining  money  under  false  pretences."  This 
closed  one  magazine  against  him,  and  made  him 
more  careful  of  the  source  from  which  he  obtained 
his  suggestions. 

Then  he  was  tempted  by  a  painful  dislike  of 
literary  labour.  He  quarrelled  with  his  pen.  A 
block  of  white  paper  lying  on  his  desk  with  a 
silent  invitation  made  him  annoyed  at  the  mere 
sight  of  it.  He  had  always  been  bad-tempered 
and  irritable  in  the  morning,  having  a  sluggish 
liver ;  and  to  sit  down  after  a  late  breakfast  to  do 
imaginative  work  was  putting  too  great  a  strain 
upon  his  nature.  The  sun  was  shining  out-of- 
doors.  There  were  pretty  women  in  the  streets 
and  parks.  He  had  young  blood  and  the  zest  of 
life.  It  was  impossible  to  sit  in  a  httle  stuffy 
room,  working  up  a  sensation,  or  sentimentalising 
over  a  love-story  in  the  garish  light  of  day.  Life 
called   to   him,  and   he   answered    the   invitation, 


114     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

deciding  that  his  imaginative  faculties  were  quicker 
and  keener  late  at  night,  when  the  brain  becomes 
less  trammelled  by  the  flesh. 

He  made  that  a  new  rule — to  enjoy  social 
pleasures  during  the  day,  and  to  work  at  night. 
Unfortunately  his  day  was  often  so  prolonged  that 
when  he  returned  to  his  rooms  at  one  o'clock  in 
the  morning  he  was  too  tired  to  do  anything  but 
tumble  off  his  clothes  and  go  to  bed.  Then  the 
next  morning  he  would  wake  with  a  headache,  and 
curse  his  temperament — and  so  it  happened  that 
often  two  weeks  would  go  by  without  a  line  of 
writing  to  the  credit  of  our  young  man  of  letters. 

He  was  sinking  deeper  and  deeper  into  the  mire 
of  debt,  and  he  was  threatened  by  a  severe  financial 
crisis. 

He  saw  it  coming,  and  occasionally  it  made  him 
go  cold  with  fear.  But  these  moments  were  rare. 
He  still  had  faith  in  his  Luck,  and  he  still  believed 
that  the  Muse  would  give  him,  one  day,  divine 
inspiration,  in  the  style  of  "  Sherlock  Holmes " 
or  "  The  Second  Mrs.  Tanqueray "  (he  would  not 
quarrel  with  the  exact  form  it  might  take),  which 
would  endow  him  with  fortune,  and  lift  him  above 
the  miserable  struggle  with  poverty.  "  All  great 
writers,"  he  said,  "  have  been  through  this  phase." 
That  thought  comforted  him  a  good  deal.  It 
seemed  to  him  the  proof  that  he  had  the  true 
spark  of  genius. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

The  House  in  Pont  Street 

It  was  astonishing  how  his  temperament  enabled 
him  to  slip  off  his  cares.  He  forgot  all  his  debts 
when  he  was  among  his  friends,  and  he  did  gener- 
ous little  deeds  without  counting  their  cost.  The 
generous  instincts  of  this  young  man,  and  his  real 
kindness  of  heart  (in  spite  of  some  faults),  are  not 
to  be  questioned  at  this  stage  of  his  career. 

For  instance,  though  he  went  often  to  Lady- 
Goldstein's  house  in  Pont  Street  (there  was  hardly 
an  afternoon  on  which  he  did  not  take  tea  with 
her),  he  seldom  called  without  bringing  a  little 
present  for  her.  They  were  simple  gifts,  and  to 
a  young  man  with  a  good  income  the  few  shillings 
they  cost  need  not  have  been  considered.  But  to 
Oliver,  whose  earnings  were  so  precarious,  they 
were  the  cause  of  additional  debt. 

Lady  Goldstein  was  so  accustomed  to  these 
tributes  that  it  never  occurred  to  her  that  Oliver 
was  buying  them  with  borrowed  money,  for  which 
one  day  there  would  come  a  reckoning. 

Yet  she  was  always  grateful.  When  Oliver 
presented  her  with  a  beautiful  bouquet  of  flowers 
(which   she  adored),  she   would    say,  "  Roly,  how 

"S 


ii6     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

good  and  kind  of  you  ! "  One  day  she  mentioned 
that  she  had  never  read  "  The  Cloister  and  the 
Hearth."  Oliver  made  a  mental  note  of  it,  and 
on  the  following  afternoon  he  gave  her  a  beautiful 
edition  of  the  story,  which  had  cost  him  a  guinea. 

Lady  Goldstein,  or  Katherine,  as  she  now 
allowed  him  to  call  her,  was  genuinely  pleased 
with  this.  She  blushed  a  little,  and  said,  "  Roly, 
I  shall  be  afraid  to  mention  any  of  my  wishes. 
You  are  like  the  fairy  godmother.  Hey,  presto  ! 
The  gift  flies  into  my  lap." 

She  tapped  him  on  the  arm  with  a  golden 
paper-knife  with  which  she  had  begun  to  cut  the 
pages,  "  Young  man,  I  am  afraid  you  are  too 
extravagant." 

"  Pooh  !  "  said  Oliver,  laughing.  "  It  is  poor 
payment  for  my  lady's  hospitality  and  gracious- 
ness." 

He  was  quite  sincere  in  saying  that.  Thinking 
the  matter  out,  it  seemed  to  him  well  worth  His 
while  to  make  these  small  gifts  in  return  for  the 
privilege  of  the  open  door  in  Pont  Street.  Hardy 
had  done  him  a  very  good  turn  in  taking  him 
one  evening  to  the  Goldsteins'.  Since  that  evening 
he  had  been  admitted  into  what  he  believed  must 
be  the  most  charming  society  in  London. 

Lady  Goldstein  herself  was  bewitching.  Oliver 
had  been  startled  by  her  beauty  and  delightful 
gaiety  when  Hardy  had  first  brought  him  to  one 
of  her  receptions.     On   that   night   he   had    been 


The  House  in  Pont  Street  117 

overwhelmed  with  the  magnificence  of  the  house, 
and  utterly  scared  by  the  powdered  footmen. 
Never  before  had  he  been  in  a  room  so  splendidly 
furnished.  It  was  an  "  Adams "  room,  and  its 
white  panelled  walls  were  hung  with  full-length 
portraits.  Among  them  was  a  portrait  of  Lady 
Goldstein  herself  by  the  most  famous  of  modern 
painters.  She  was  in  a  flowered  muslin  gown, 
holding  the  strings  of  a  garden  hat.  Her  hair 
seemed  to  have  caught  the  sunlight  and  made  a 
kind  of  golden  aureole  round  her  laughing  face. 

Oliver  saw  that  the  painter  had  caught  the  spirit 
of  the  face,  for  when  Hardy  brought  him  forward 
she  was  laughing  in  just  the  same  way  among  her 
friends.  There  was  some  statuary  about  the  room, 
and  on  the  rosewood  piano  a  bronze  head  of 
Minerva.  That  evening  Oliver  Lumley,  who  was 
familiar  with  a  horsehair  sofa  and  cheap  mahogany 
furniture,  sat  for  the  first  time  on  Chippendale,  and 
was  very  uncomfortable. 

But  Lady  Goldstein's  vivaciousness  and  sim- 
plicity soon  put  him  at  his  ease,  and  in  spite  of  his 
suburban  upbringing  he  was  not  gauche  in  her 
society,  but,  on  the  contrary,  obtained  the  favoured 
interest  of  his  hostess,  on  account  of  his  good  looks 
and  boyishness. 

Yet  there  had  been  other  good-looking  men  in 
the  room,  and  Oliver  came  to  know  them  very 
well.  For  though  Lady  Goldstein  had  a  crowded 
drawing-room    when    she    was    "  at   home "    and 


1 1 8     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

received  many  distinguished  people,  including  at 
least  one  member  of  the  Ministry  (he  was  a  Junior 
Lord  of  the  Treasury),  several  well-known  poli- 
ticians, mostly  on  the  Conservative  side,  a  Canon 
of  St.  Paul's,  and  a  number  of  rich  financiers,  she 
had  a  little  court  of  favourites  who  paid  homage 
to  her  by  almost  daily  attendance.  At  least  one 
or  two  of  them  were  sure  to  be  found  at  her  house 
on  any  afternoon  or  evening  of  the  week.  They 
included  Halliday  Wing  the  painter,  Lord  Hugh 
Marcroft  the  Oxford  boy,  Bertram  Ordish,  an 
eccentric  dramatist  who  continually  advertised  his 
desire  for  a  wife  but  still  remained  a  bachelor,  Mr. 
Francis  Luttrell,  and  Mr.  Edmund  Grattan — both 
of  Fleet  Street — and  a  little  Russian  musician 
named  Frolenko,  who  spoke,  on  the  violin,  words 
of  witchery  and  love  and  dream-beauty. 

Katherine  Goldstein,  who  had  once  been  Kitty 
Halstead,  and  a  journalist  in  Fleet  Street  on  three 
pounds  a  week,  was  happiest  when  she  had  only 
these  friends  in  her  drawing-room  and  was  relieved 
of  the  duty  of  entertaining  her  husband's  "  pom- 
posities," as  she  called  them. 

Oliver  thanked  the  stars  which  had  brought  him 
to  her  drawing-room.  For  they  were  merry  hours 
on  dull  afternoons  and  evenings  when  Lady  Kitty 
sat  on  the  carved  oak  coal-scuttle,  or  on  a  tapestried 
footstool  four  inches  high,  or  on  the  carpet  with 
her  hands  clasped  round  her  knees  (anywhere  but 
on  a   chair),  while   Frolenko   was   fiddling  softly 


The  House  in  Pont  Street  119 

through  vague  dream  -  worlds,  while  Edmund 
Grattan,  who  was  an  Irishman  and  a  war 
correspondent,  was  telling  whimsical  stories  of 
adventures  in  many  countries,  or  in  a  street  of 
adventure  nearer  at  home,  and  while  Bertram 
Ordish  was  telling  fairy-tales  invented  on  the 
hearth-rug,  as  he  lay  there  at  full  length  with  the 
firelight  flickering  upon  his  long,  clean-shaven 
face,  and  gleaming  upon  the  bald  patch  above  his 
forehead. 

One  of  the  footmen — it  was  generally  Smithers, 
whose  solemnity  was  imperturbable — would  come 
into  the  drawing-room  with  a  tea-tray,  or,  if  it  were 
evening,  with  coffee  -  cups,  and  at  his  coming 
Katherine  Goldstein  on  the  coal  -  scuttle,  and 
Bertram  Ordish  on  the  hearthrug,  and  Edmund 
Grattan,  who  was  smoking  a  pipe,  with  the  kind 
permission  of  his  unconventional  hostess  (he  would 
hide  it  in  his  pocket  when  Smithers  came  in), 
would  pretend  to  be  entirely  unaware  of  the 
intrusion  of  this  tall,  grim  person  in  crimson 
livery  and  white  stockings. 

But  if  a  tale  were  being  told  it  came  to  a  sudden 
pause,  or  if  an  argument  were  in  progress — and 
they  argued  upon  every  subject  'twixt  heaven  and 
earth — it  languished  and  fell  flat  until  the  majestic 
figure  of  the  flunkey  retired.  Then  Lady  Gold- 
stein permitted  herself  to  make  a  little  grimace  at 
his  back.  Only  Frolenko  was  undisturbed.  He 
would  go  on  playing  dreamily.     Sometimes,  how 


I20     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

ever,  he  would  play  Smithers  out  with  a  slow  and 
stately  tune  like  a  funeral  march, 

Frolenko  was  not  one  of  the  long-haired 
fiddlers.  He  had  short-cropped  hair  on  a  little 
bullet  head,  and  was  remarkably  like  a  good-looking 
monkey,  and  just  as  mischievous.  He  was  twenty- 
two  years  of  age,  earned  three  thousand  a  year  by 
his  concert  performances,  and  spent  every  penny  of 
it  with  the  wildest  extravagance.  But  he  had  the 
heart  of  a  schoolboy,  and  in  Katherine  Goldstein's 
drawing-room  he  played  the  fool  about  as  delight- 
fully as  the  fiddle.  He  could  imitate  all  the 
animals  of  the  farm-yard  and  all  the  birds  of  the 
air,  so  that  any  one  passing  the  open  windows  of 
31,  Pont  Street  would  imagine  that  a  menagerie 
was  inside  the  house.  He  was  a  source  of  real 
delight  to  the  errand  boys. 

It  was  Frolenko  also  who  organised  a  pillow- 
fight  in  the  billiard-room,  which  resulted  in  an  easy 
victory  for  himself  and  Lady  Goldstein  against 
Oliver  and  Edmund  Grattan's  wife — a  beautiful, 
joyous-hearted  woman  who  went  by  the  name  of 
"  Mother  Hubbard  " — the  destruction  of  an  electric 
lamp,  and  a  carpet  strewn  with  feathers. 

Such  rowdiness,  however,  was  only  of  rare  occur- 
rence, and  the  evenings  were  quiet  enough,  except 
for  the  passionate  and  excitable  music  with  which 
Frolenko  was  sometimes  inspired,  and  for  the 
laughter  of  people  who  were  such  good  friends  that 
they  could  quarrel  with   each  other  in  the  most 


The  House  in   Pont  Street  121 

agreeable  manner  possible.  Lady  Goldstein  had  a 
habit  of  quarrelling  particularly  with  Mr.  Francis 
Luttrell,  a  tall,  pale,  good-looking  young  man,  who 
had  been  one  of  her  colleagues  on  a  paper  in  Fleet 
Street  in  her  journalistic  days.  They  were  like 
Beatrice  and  Benedick,  and  "  huddled  jest  on  jest," 
each  one  barbed  with  satire.  Did  Mr.  Luttrell 
come  in  the  afternoon,  she  vowed  that  he  had 
played  truant  from  the  office  in  order  to  get  a  free 
tea.  Did  he  come  in  the  evening,  she  protested 
that  the  world  would  be  dull  to-morrow  because 
Mr.  Luttrell  had  not  written  his  prose-poem  for 
the  news  columns  of  The  Morning.  Frank 
Luttrell,  who  was  a  young  man  with  an  old- 
fashioned  gravity  beyond  his  years,  inquired  very 
courteously  how  many  new  frocks  my  Lady  Kitty 
had  ordered  since  yesterday  afternoon,  and  how 
many  yards  of  pearls  she  had  bought  lately  in 
Bond  Street.  That  would  make  a  beginning  of  a 
nice  little  quarrel,  ending  in  a  unanimous  verdict  of 
guilty  against  Lady  Katherine  Goldstein,  charged 
with  a  passion  for  millinery  and  jeweller's  toys. 

Yet  all  their  talk  was  not  so  childish,  for  Bertram 
Ordish  was  not  only  a  composer  of  fairy  tales,  but 
a  tremendous  student  of  philosophy,  and  Halliday 
Wing,  the  black-and-white  artist,  knew  not  only 
the  whole  history  of  painting,  but  was  a  prophet 
of  its  future,  and  Edmund  Grattan  had  seen  all  the 
big  events  of  modern  history  and  modern  wars  up 
and    down    the   world,   and   little    Frolenko,  who 


122     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

besides  being  a  famous  violinist,  was  an  intellectual 
anarchist,  had  many  tales  to  tell  of  Russian  tyranny 
in  Russian  prisons,  and  spoke  an  epic  poem  about 
the  divine  spirit  of  revolution. 

Oliver,  who  had  not  the  knowledge  of  these 
journalists  and  their  friends,  had  to  sit  silent  some- 
times, unable  to  contribute  much  to  the  general 
conversation.  At  such  times  a  sense  of  his  own 
ignorance  and  of  his  narrow  upbringing  wounded 
his  self-pride  and  humiliated  him.  Yet  he  com- 
forted himself  somewhat  by  the  thought  that  not 
all  the  sons  of  poor  City  clerks  could  bask  in  the 
splendour  of  this  handsome  room  and  enjoy  the 
friendship  of  a  lady  of  quality. 


CHAPTER   XVIII 
In  Disguise 

With  Katherine  Goldstein's  husband  Oliver  never 
found  himself  perfectly  at  ease.  But  Rudolf  Gold- 
stein was  too  busy  to  spend  many  hours  at  home, 
and  there  were  times  when  Oliver  forgot  that  Lady 
Katherine  had  a  husband  of  her  own.  It  occurred 
to  him  that  she  herself  sometimes  forgot  this  detail, 
and  that  she  was  glad  to  forget.  He  suspected, 
though  without  much  evidence,  that  she  had  made 
an  unhappy  marriage,  and  was  utterly  out  of  sym- 
pathy with  this  tall,  stolid  young  man  of  German 
parentage,  who  was  the  head  of  a  great  firm  of 
electrical  engineers,  founded  by  old  Otto  Goldstein, 
his  father,  who  had  been  made  a  baronet  for  his 
big  donations  to  the  Conservative  party  funds. 
He  had  the  appearance  and  manner  of  a  German 
officer.  His  square,  florid  face,  which  had  a  little 
bristling  moustache,  was  marked  on  the  right 
cheek  by  the  deep  cuts  received  at  Heidelberg 
from  the  duelling  swords  of  German  students.  He 
bowed  stiffly  and  clicked  his  heels  together  when 
one  of  his  wife's  friends  was  presented  to  him, 
and  though  he  spoke  perfect  English,  it  was  rather 
guttural.      He   was   an   indefatigable  worker,  and 

123 


124     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

made  money  quicker  than  even  Katherine  could 
spend  it. 

Yet  he  seemed  a  simple  fellow  and,  apart  from 
electrical  engineering,  rather  slow-witted.  When 
Katherine's  literary  friends  were  in  the  room  he 
took  but  little  part  in  the  conversation,  and  was 
evidently  perplexed  by  their  bookish  slang  and 
ingenious  wit.  He  would  sit  twisting  the  few 
hairs  on  his  upper  lip  and  glancing  from  one  to  the 
other  with  an  amused  smile,  but  was  rather  restless 
until  he  had  persuaded  one  of  them  to  join  him  in 
a  game  of  billiards,  which  he  played  with  scientific 
skill. 

Sometimes,  when  he  came  in  unexpectedly  to 
the  room  where  his  wife  was  chatting  in  her  spark- 
ling way  with  some  of  those  unconventional  men 
like  Halliday  Wing,  Bertram  Ordish,  and  Edmund 
Grattan,  he  would  stand  for  a  moment  in  the  door- 
way in  a  hesitating  manner,  as  though  wondering 
whether  he  could  go  back  unobserved, 

Oliver  fancied  that  he  disapproved  of  his  wife's 
intimacy  with  these  friends,  and  once  or  twice, 
when  Katherine  looked  up  and  saw  her  husband, 
Oliver  noticed  that  the  laughing  light  went  out  of 
her  eyes  and  that  her  face  flushed  a  little,  as  though 
conscious  of  his  displeasure.  But  always  she  would 
spring  up  from  the  hassock  or  the  hearthrug  and  go 
over  to  him  with  a  word  of  gladness  at  his  coming, 
and,  putting  her  hands  on  his  broad  shoulders, 
lift  her  cheek  to  him  for  a  kiss.     Then  he  would 


In  Disguise  125 

put  an  arm  round  her  waist  and  touch  her  cheek 
with  his  lips,  and  no  man  could  doubt  that  he 
had  a  sincere  love  for  this  beautiful  girl  who  was 
his  wife.  But  Oliver  could  not  get  it  out  of  his 
head  that  she  was  more  pleased  with  the  society 
of  other  men,  and  that,  in  spite  of  her  affectionate 
caresses  to  her  husband,  she  was,  unconsciously 
perhaps,  rather  bored  and  constrained  when  he 
came  home  to  her. 

She  seemed  to  have  married  into  a  different  life 
to  that  of  her  girlhood,  and  to  be  filled  always  with 
a  sentimental  regret  for  the  little  world  to  which 
she  had  previously  belonged  ;  or,  rather,  she  stood 
between  both  worlds,  and  did  not  quite  belong 
to  either  of  them.  She  cherished  the  fondest 
memories  of  a  Liberty  Hall  where  as  a  journalist 
she  had  lived  in  lodgings  with  a  comrade  who  was 
now  Edmund  Grattan's  wife,  and  who  went  by  the 
nickname  of  Mother  Hubbard.  To  Mrs.  Grattan 
she  said  one  day  in  Oliver's  presence,  "  My  dear, 
you  are  still  poor  and  the  wife  of  a  newspaper 
man.  I  think  I  envy  you.  Do  you  know  how  I 
sigh  sometimes  for  the  days  when  we  were  both 
poor  together  and  in  the  rush  and  squalor  of  '  the 
Street'?" 

"Kitty,"  was  Mother  Hubbard's  answer,  "you 
were  never  born  to  be  satisfied.  How  you  used 
to  hate  poverty !  How  you  yearned  for  all 
the  beauty  that  wealth  brings !  For  this,  and 
this ! " 


126     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

She  touched  Katherine's  arm  with  its  diamond 
bracelet,  and  her  neck  with  its  diamond  collar. 

"  Rudolf  works  hard  to  buy  you  those  trinkets. 
Ungrateful  minx ! " 

"  Oh,  I  know  I  was  born  bad.  I  have  a  rest- 
lessness here."  She  put  her  hand  to  the  place 
where  the  heart  is  supposed  to  be.  "  I  know  I 
could  not  go  back  to  the  old  rush  and  squalor, 
even  with  its  liberty  ;  and  I  am  wildly  extravagant 
with  Rudolfs  money.  But,  all  the  same,  I  get  no 
real  satisfaction  out  of  all  this  kind  of  thing" — 
she  looked  round  the  splendour  of  her  drawing- 
room.  "There  is  something  hollow  in  my  heart 
that  has  not  been  filled  up.  I  have  a  great  hole 
here."  She  put  her  hand  to  her  side  again.  Then 
she  made  a  little  grimace,  and  lowered  her  voice  to 
a  whisper,  as  though  about  to  say  something  really 
and  desperately  wicked.  It  was,  in  fact,  quite 
indiscreet. 

"  Above  all,  I  hate  Rudolf's  relatives.  They  are 
all  rich,  and  all  respectable,  and  all  German.  I 
believe  Rudy  is  intimately  related  with  the  whole 
German  colony  in  London.  I  have  never  been 
able  to  count  his  cousins.  There  are  the  Gold- 
steins of  Grosvenor  Street,  and  the  Goldsteins  of 
Bruton  Street,  and  the  Berensteins  of  Sydenham, 
and  the  Ecksteins  of  Hampstead — Steins  to  the 
right  of  us,  Steins  to  the  left  of  us.  They  are  all 
stuffy  and  stodgy,  and  Lutherans  of  the  strictest 
sect !     They  regard  me  as  a  dangerous  mistake  in 


In  Disguise  127 

the  family,  and  they  weary  me  till  I  could  weep 
for  weariness." 

She  put  her  arms  about  Mother  Hubbard  and 
laid  her  head  on  her  breast,  as  though  she  would 
weep  then  and  there.     But  she  laughed  instead. 

"  Hush ! "  said  Mrs.  Grattan,  in  her  sweet, 
motherly  way ;  "  hush !  You  must  not  talk  like 
this  before  strangers." 

"  Oh,  Oliver  is  all  right,"  said  Lady  Kitty.  "  He 
is  one  of  the  Fleet  Street  boys.  They  know  that 
I  talk  nonsense  just  for  the  sake  of  talking.  That 
is  why  I  love  them  to  come  here.  Rudolf's  relatives 
always  take  me  seriously." 

Oliver,  who  had  not  known  the  lady  so  long  as 
Mr.  Francis  Luttrell  and  others,  took  her  seriously 
also,  and  he  believed  quite  honestly  that  this 
beautiful  girl  was  the  victim  of  something  very 
like  a  broken  heart. 

He  was  filled  with  pity  for  her,  and  decided  that 
he,  Oliver  Lumley,  would  do  all  in  his  power  to 
bring  happiness  into  her  life.  That  decision  cost 
him  more  time  and  money  than  he  could  afford, 
led  him  into  an  unfortunate  quarrel  with  Charles 
Hardy,  Edmund  Grattan,  Bertram  Ordish,  Halli- 
day  Wing,  and  Gilbert  Verney — a  formidable 
coalition — and  finally  to  a  most  unhappy  crisis. 

Those  other  men — Hardy  and  the  rest  of  them — 
had  their  work  to  do,  and  with  some  of  them  it 
was  work  which  took  them  away  for  days  together 
on  journalistic  adventures  or  kept  them  close  to 


128      Oliver's  Kind  Women 

Fleet  Street.  Exciting  events  happened  in  English 
history — a  general  election,  a  big  murder  mystery, 
an  anarchist  plot,  a  frightful  railway  smash,  and 
a  series  of  mine  disasters- — so  that  newspaper  men 
were  busy  and  newspapers  raking  in  revenue. 
Frolenko  was  away,  fiddling  in  Paris,  and  Halli- 
day  Wing  was  painting  the  portrait  of  a  brewer 
in  the  Midlands.  This  resulted  in  loneliness  for 
Lady  Kitty.  Her  little  court  of  favourites  was 
broken  up  for  a  time.  She  had  only  the  German 
relatives  left — and  Oliver  Lumley. 

Oliver  did  not,  of  course,  deal  with  anything  so 
stupid  as  facts,  but  wrote  only  the  purest  fiction, 
and  that,  as  we  have  seen,  late  at  night.  He, 
therefore,  was  the  one  man  left  to  console  a  rather 
disconsolate  lady.  It  put  him  into  a  position  of 
advantage  over  the  other  men,  who,  ordinarily,  left 
him  in  the  shade  and  made  him  feel  an  outsider. 
He  was  not  slow  to  profit  by  it. 

Often  he  would  go  to  Pont  Street  in  the  after- 
noon and  find  himself  quite  alone  with  Lady 
Goldstein.  Nobody  but  Smithers  the  footman 
interrupted  their  conversation,  and  then  it  was 
only  to  bring  in  the  tea-things.  For  an  hour  or 
two  they  would  talk  together  in  that  quiet  tone 
of  voice,  and  with  those  little  silences,  which 
show  that  mere  acquaintanceship  has  passed  into 
friendship. 

Katherine  Goldstein,  in  one  of  her  remarkable 
gowns  (Oliver  had  seldom  seen  her  in  the  same 


In  Disguise  129 

one  twice)  tucked  up  a  little,  would  sit  with  her 
feet  on  the  fender  rail  (she  insisted  on  having  a 
fire  even  on  a  bright  spring  day),  and  with  her 
hands  clasped  in  her  lap,  would  talk  of  her  adven- 
tures as  a  journalist,  her  "scoops"  as  she  called 
them — there  was  one  famous  one  in  connection 
with  a  Bourbon  wedding— and  would  get  excited 
and  laugh  with  ripples  of  merriment  at  the  old 
fun  and  rattle  and  rush  of  the  newspaper,  now 
dead,  where  formerly  she  used  to  work.  Some- 
times after  these  anecdotes  she  would  sigh  and 
say  "  Well,  it  is  all  over  now ! "  as  though  there 
could  be  no  more  interest  in  life  for  her. 

In  these  moods  of  pessimism  and  regret,  when 
there  was  a  rather  tired,  wistful  look  in  her  eyes, 
Oliver  found  her  most  charming  and  most  alluring. 
He  would  speak  words  of  sympathy  and  consola- 
tion, or  try  to  cheer  her  up  by  jokes  which  he 
found  he  could  make  more  easily  and  more  wittily 
when  her  other  friends  were  not  present.  Some- 
times she  jeered  at  him  in  a  pretty,  mocking  way 
for  his  obvious  attempts  to  brighten  her. 

"  For  Heaven's  sake,  my  dear  child,  do  not 
imagine  that  I  am  suffering  from  heart-sickness. 
I  have  everything  the  heart  of  woman  could  wish 
— except  one  thing." 

She  did  not  say  what  that  one  thing  was,  but 
Oliver  believed  that  she  grieved  at  being  childless. 
She  would    have    made   a   beautiful    mother,    he 
thought 
9 


130     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

Once  he  angered  her,  and  was  startled  when  she 
turned  on  him  with  flushed  cheeks  and  a  sharp 
rebuke.  It  was  when  he  made  some  slight  jest 
about  Rudolf  Goldstein.  He  had  not  meant  to  be 
deliberately  disparaging,  but  he  regretted  having 
spoken  the  words. 

"You  forget  yourself,"  she  said.  "Rudolf  is  my 
husband." 

He  smoothed  over  his  unlucky  speech,  though 
afterwards  he  excused  himself  to  his  own  con- 
science by  remembering  that  Lady  Kitty  had 
often  spoken  rather  freely  herself  about  her 
German  baronet,  as  she  called  him. 

However,  she  forgot  and  forgave  his  slip,  and 
that  afternoon  he  really  did  succeed  in  raising  her 
spirits,  which  had  been  down  in  the  dumps,  by 
suggesting  that  she  should  write  a  novel. 

The  idea  caught  hold  of  her.  For  the  next 
week  or  two  she  talked  incessantly  of  "  plots  "  and 
"  situations  "  to  Oliver.  Very  good  they  were,  in 
Oliver's  opinion,  and  he  found  himself  wishing  that 
such  ideas  would  jump  so  quickly  into  his  own 
brain.  So  he  told  her  one  afternoon  in  a  moment 
of  candour,  and  then  at  once  she  abandoned  the 
idea  of  a  novel,  and  insisted  upon  his  working  out 
some  of  her  ideas  as  short  stories. 

"  I  shall  never  have  the  pluck  or  the  industry  to 
write  a  novel.  You  see  I  have  no  spur.  Rudolf 
makes  me  wallow  in  luxury.  It  is  only  poor 
people  who  may  write  good  things." 


In  Disguise  131 

"  Then  I  must  write  good  things,"  said  Oliver. 
"  For  I  am  very  poor  !  " 

Lady  Goldstein  looked  at  him  with  curious 
eyes,  as  though  to  test  the  truth  of  his  words. 

"  I  don't  suppose  you  are  indecently  rich  like  I 
am — thanks  to  Rudolf.  But  I  don't  think  you  are 
very  poor.  You  make  a  good  bit  by  your  writing, 
don't  you?" 

Oliver  was  tempted  to  pour  out  his  troubles  into 
her  lap,  to  confess  that  he  was  so  overwhelmed  in 
debt  that  he  was  becoming  seriously  scared,  that 
he  owed  money  to  Charles  Hardy,  and  to  several 
of  his  other  friends,  and  that  he  was  weeks  behind 
with  his  landlady's  rent. 

But  her  belief  in  his  success  flattered  him.  He 
was  glad  of  her  good  opinion  of  him  as  a  literary 
man,  and  he  did  not  care  to  disillusion  her.  So  he 
answered  lightly,  "  Oh,  I  do  pretty  well.  I  earn 
my  bread-and-butter,  and  sometimes  can  afford  a 
little  jam ! " 

"  How  good  the  jam  is  when  one  is  earning  the 
bread-and-butter  !  "  said  Katherine  Goldstein. 

She  kept  to  her  point  about  his  writing  up  some 
of  the  plots  she  had  invented,  and  she  was  tremen- 
dously pleased  when  he  handed  her  three  of  them 
neatly  typed.  They  had  worked  out  rather  well, 
and  again  Kitty  was  tremendously  pleased  when 
they  were  accepted  by  one  of  the  magazines. 

"  I  must  pay  you  half  the  proceeds,"  said  Oliver. 
"  This  has  been  a  collaboration." 


132     Oliver's   Kind  Women 

Katherine  protested  that  this  was  all  nonsense, 
and  that  he  had  a  right  to  every  halfpenny  of  the 
money.  But  she  yielded  when  he  said  that  he 
would  "  stand  treat "  out  of  what  was  morally  and 
legally  due  to  her.  She  did  not  remember  that 
the  money  would  not  be  actually  in  his  pocket 
until  the  stories  were  printed,  and  Oliver,  who 
always  forestalled  his  earnings,  did  not  give  a 
thought  to  this  side  of  the  business. 

So  Oliver  "  stood  treat,"  and  Katherine  was  like 
a  schoolgirl  in  her  desire  for  a  little  fun  and  a  little 
adventure  when  he  came  to  fetch  her  one  evening 
to  a  Fancy  Dress  Ball  at  the  Artists'  Club. 

Oliver  was  in  the  costume  of  David  Garrick. 
It  cost  him  a  guinea  at  Clarkson's,  and  a  big 
mirror  had  told  him  that  he  looked  a  gallant 
fellow  in  it.  His  finely  cut,  clean-shaven  face,  with 
his  black  brows  and  dark  eyes,  looked  very  striking 
under  the  white  peruke.  The  sky-blue  satin  coat, 
the  long  Waistcoat  with  little  pink  roses  embroi- 
dered on  it,  the  knee  breeches  and  white  silk 
stockings,  the  frill  at  the  throat,  the  ruffles  at  the 
wrist,  and  the  high-heeled  shoes  with  silver  buckles 
became  him  wonderfully.  As  he  jumped  out  of 
the  hansom  cab  in  which  he  had  driven  from  the 
costumier's,  he  felt  like  a  fairy  prince  coming  to 
fetch  Cinderella  to  the  ball. 

The  footman  at  the  door  grinned  at  him  deferen- 
tially, and  gave  a  little  cough  behind  his  hand.  In 
the  drawing-room  Oliver  paced  up  and  down  and 


In  Disguise  133 

bowed  to  his  own  image  with  his  hand  on  his 
heart  in  an  oval  mirror  on  the  wall.  He  wished 
that  he  might  always  wear  such  clothes  in  the 
streets  of  London,  so  drab  and  ugly  now  with  the 
hideous  dress  of  modern  men.  From  a  Chippendale 
writing-table  he  picked  up  another  mirror,  and  was 
admiring  the  effect  of  the  black  patch  upon  his 
left  cheek  when  Katherine  Goldstein  came  in. 

He  dropped  the  glass  with  a  little  clatter  on  the 
table,  and  then  bowed  very  low  and  humbly  before 
a  beautiful  lady  who  seemed  to  have  stepped 
straight  from  a  painting  by  George  Morland.  She 
wore  a  white  muslin  frock  with  a  high  waist  and 
puffed  sleeves,  and  a  big  pink  sash.  The  dress  was 
cut  lov/  at  the  neck,  and  round  her  throat  was  a 
circlet  of  pearls.  Her  fair  hair  was  uncoiled,  and 
fell  in  ringlets  about  her  face,  from  beneath  a  broad 
straw  hat  with  a  white  ostrich  feather.  She  had 
put  a  touch  of  colour  upon  her  cheeks,  and,  with 
her  bright  brown  ej'es  and  smiling  lips,  she  was 
just  the  image  of  that  famous  portrait  of  "Delia  in 
Town,"  of  which  a  coloured  mezzotint  hung  over  the 
rosewood  piano,  with  its  legend  in  flowing  script : 

"  With  beauteous  form  and  sparkling  Eyes 
To  Town  the  rural  Delia  flies, 
List,  gentle  Nymph,  to  what  I  say, 
Let  Prudence  guard  thee  on  thy  way. 
Alas  !  too  many  a  simple  Maid 
Hath  been  by  cruel  Arts  betray'd, 
Then  quickly  seek  thy  native  Grove, 
The  seat  of  Innocence  and  Love." 


134     Oliver's   Kind  Women 

She  dropped  a  deep  curtsy  to  Oliver,  and  sank 
for  a  moment  between  the  white  billows  of  her 
gown.  Then  she  rose  with  a  deeper  colour  in  her 
cheeks,  and,  holding  out  her  hand  to  him,  said  : 

"  My  lord,  you  look  rarely  well  to-night,  i'  faith!" 

Oliver  permitted  himself  to  touch  her  hand  with 
his  lips. 

"  Lady,  you  put  a  spell  upon  my  eyes." 

Then  they  both  laughed,  and  stood  looking  at 
each  other  with  just  a  trace  of  self-consciousness. 

"  You  are  wonderful !  "  said  Oliver,  "  What 
does  your  husband  think  of  the  vision  ? " 

"  Rudolf  is  glumpy,"  said  Katherine.  "  This 
*  play-acting,'  as  he  calls  it,  has  stirred  up  all  his 
Lutheran  instincts.  He  went  off  to  a  public 
dinner  rather  huffy  with  me,  poor  boy." 

For  a  moment  she  looked  as  if  she  half  repented 
of  her  adventure.  But  when  Smithers  came  into 
the  room  and  said  "  The  car  is  ready,  my  lady," 
the  look  of  sad  and  sombre  reproach  with  which 
he  regarded  her  restored  her  good  spirits,  and, 
putting  her  hand  lightly  on  Oliver's  arm,  and  hold- 
ing up  her  full  white  gown,  she  went  out,  laughing, 
to  the  great  car  with  its  glaring  head-lights. 

As  they  drove  to  the  Artists'  Ball  Oliver's  knees 
were  half  covered  with  the  fluffy  waves  of  her 
muslin  frock,  and  her  fair  ringlets  strayed  upon  his 
shoulders.  She  had  used  some  beautiful  perfume 
of  roses,  and  the  subtle  odour  of  it  stole  into  his 
senses.      It   seemed   to  him   wonderful — like  the 


In  Disguise  135 

magic  of  the  "  Arabian  Nights  " — that  he  should 
be  driving  in  this  way,  and  dressed  as  a  beau 
of  olden  times,  with  a  lady  of  quality  by  his  side. 

For  a  moment  he  had  a  vision  of  the  parlour  at 
home  in  Rosemary  Avenue,  where  his  mother  sat 
mending  socks,  and  his  father  reading  in  the  horse- 
hair arm-chair  with  its  broken  springs,  and  Galatea 
just  returning  from  the  office  with  a  headache  and 
a  bad  temper.  He  had  got  away  from  all  that. 
He  was  in  a  new  and  brighter  world.  He  re- 
membered that  a  week  ago  he  had  had  a  postcard 
from  Galatea — "  Is  there  any  possible  chance  of 
your  getting  tickets  for  the  Artists'  Ball  ?  I  would 
give  my  heart  to  go.  I  hear  that  Mr.  Hardy  will 
be  there."  So  she  had  written,  and  he  had 
wondered  then  how  she  knew  about  the  ball  and 
about  Hardy's  proposal  to  go.  He  had  written 
back  a  postcard — "  Impossible,  my  dear,"  but  his 
sister's  request  had  put  the  idea  into  his  head  of 
taking  Lady  Goldstein.  Poor  Galatea  !  She  was 
the  Cinderella  of  the  family. 

"  A  penny  for  your  thoughts  !  "  said  Katherine 
and  Oliver,  giving  a  start,  smiled  and  said  : 

"  I  was  thinking  how  beautiful  you  look  in  that, 
sweet,  old-fashioned  dress." 

It  was  not  strictly  true,  but  a  charming  com- 
pliment, and  Katherine  was  pleased  with  it. 

"  David  Garrick  would  be  flattered  by  his  living 
portrait.     He  was  an  ugly  little  man." 

She  had  returned  the  compliment  prettily. 


CHAPTER   XIX 
A  Pageant  of  History 

As  they  drove  up  to  the  entrance-way  of  Covent 
Garden  Opera  House  they  were  held  up  in  a  block 
of  carriages.  Through  the  windows  they  could 
see  the  flashing  lamps  of  many  motor-cars.  From 
some  of  them  which  had  come  to  a  standstill  there 
jumped  down  strange  figures  like  the  characters  of 
a  fairy  world,  little  Columbines,  as  light  as  puff- 
balls,  scarlet  devils,  white-faced  pierrots,  a  knight 
in  armour,  a  Jacobite  gentleman,  a  white  pig  with 
a  curly  tail,  two  Spanish  dancers,  and  a  group  of 
Red  Indians  in  war-paint,  with  their  squaws. 

"  Let  us  get  down  too,"  said  Katherine  ;  "  it  will 
save  time,  and  I  am  longing  to  see  the  wonderful 
picture  inside." 

Oliver  got  out  of  the  car,  and  gave  his  hand  to 
Katherine. 

She  held  to  his  arm  as  they  made  their  way,  in 
strange  company,  into  the  great  hall. 

Then  Katherine  held  her  breath  for  a  moment, 
and  clasped  her  hands,  and  said  "  Oh,  wonderful ! " 

It  was  certainly  a  brilliant  pageant  beneath  the 
glittering  candelabra,  which  shed  pools  of  soft  light 
upon  the  great  polished  floor.  Out  of  the  coloured 
136 


A  Pageant  of  History     137 

picture-books  of  history  had  stepped  Hving  figures 
— the  Kings  and  Queens  of  England,  Saxon 
warriors,  ladies  of  Arthur's  court.  Gentlemen  of 
France,  of  those  days  when  the  Three  Musketeers 
swaggered  arm-in-arm  through  the  narrow  streets 
of  old  Paris,  Italian  nobles  of  the  Renaissance, 
like  Benedick  and  Mercutio,  Elizabethans,  like 
Robin  Devereux,  Spenser,  and  Sidney,  the  wits 
and  bloods  of  the  Queen  Anne  coffee-taverns, 
Georgian  dandies,  and  Early  Victorian  ladies  in 
the  flowered  gowns  of  our  great-grandmothers. 

And  out  of  a  world  of  dreams,  fantastic,  beautiful, 
hideous,  alluring,  had  come  many  fairy  characters, 
such  as  children  see  between  sleep  and  waking — 
the  heroes  and  heroines  of  their  nursery  rhymes, 
the  gorgeous  figures  of  the  "  Arabian  Nights," 
flower-fairies,  demons,  wood-nymphs,  and  evil  genii, 
animals  with  speaking  voices,  and  chanticleers 
that  crowed  before  the  dawn. 

The  wardrobe  of  all  nations  had  been  ransacked, 
and  here  were  Dutch  girls  with  their  striped 
petticoats  and  wooden  shoon,  Dutch  fishermen 
with  their  monstrous  breeches,  Bohemian  gipsies 
with  tambourines,  Italian  contadine,  Spanish 
dancers  and  Spanish  toreadors,  Swiss  peasants, 
Chinese,  and  Arabs — a  human  phantasmagoria. 

Oliver  and  Katherine  threaded  their  way  through 
this  many-coloured  throng.  Katherine  was  excited 
now,  and  at  every  moment  she  would  touch 
Oliver's  arm  and  say,  "Look,  how  absurd!   how 


138     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

amusing !  "  or  turn  with  a  gay  laugh  to  stare  after 
some  ill-assorted  couple.  Her  sense  of  humour 
was  stirred  by  the  sight  of  Henry  VHI.  with  a 
white-robed  nun  on  his  arm  ;  by  the  Devil  pacing 
across  the  floor  with  a  pretty  Pierrette  in  her 
fluffy  white  skirt  and  long  white  stockings  ;  by 
Louis  XIV.  teasing  the  love-locks  of  a  Stuart 
cavalier ;  by  Marie  Antoinette  hand  in  hand  with 
a  Prehistoric  Peep. 

Oliver  and  Katherine  did  not  escape  comment. 
Oliver  was  conscious  that  many  of  these  dream- 
figures  turned  to  look  at  him.  A  pretty  girl 
dressed  as  Bo-peep  gave  him  the  full  admiration 
of  her  eyes,  then,  turning  to  Boy  Blue,  said,  "  My 
word  !  what  a  handsome  young  man  !  " 

An  Elizabethan,  with  a  spade  beard  and  jewelled 
doublet,  touched  him  on  the  arm  and  said,  "  Well 
done,  Roly  !     You  look  perfect !  " 

Oliver  stared  at  this  man,  who  was  surely  the 
ghost  of  Sir  Walter  Raleigh  in  his  spring-time. 
Something  about  the  eyes  seemed  familiar  to  him, 
but  he  could  not  identify  his  friend.  Probably 
it  was  one  of  the  Wastrels  nobly  disguised. 

A  girl's  voice  over  his  shoulder  said,  "  Why, 
there  is  Lady  Goldstein  ! "  He  looked  round  to 
see  a  pair  of  laughing  eyes  above  the  veil  of  a 
Turkish  lady.  She  tripped  away  on  the  arm  of 
a  white-clad  clown. 

Several  times  he  heard  Lady  Goldstein's  name 
mentioned,  and  every  time  he  had  a  little  thrill 


A  Pageant  of  History     139 

of  pride  as  being  the  cavalier  of  this  distinguished 
lady.  Many  mysterious  people  bowed  to  her,  or 
stopped  to  pay  homage  to  her.  There  was  a 
young  Lancelot  in  shining  armour  of  gold  who 
bowed  low  before  her,  and  lifted  her  hand  to 
his  lips. 

"  You  here,  Kitty  !  " 

It  was  Mr.  Francis  Luttrell,  the  young  journalist 
who  came  to  Pont  Street.  He  looked  round  at 
Oliver  and  nodded  to  him  rather  curtly. 

Lady  Goldstein  blushed  a  little. 

"  I  did  not  know  you  were  coming,  Frank.  You 
look  a  very  parfit,  gentil  knight.  Where  is  your 
fair  lady  ?  " 

"  I  had  a  dream-lady  once,"  said  Sir  Lancelot, 
"  but  I  was  poor,  and  she  became  a  queen.  So  I 
wander  alone  in  the  world." 

Lady  Goldstein's  blush  was  deeper  now. 

"  Hush,  Frank.  Do  not  talk  nonsense.  .  .  .  You 
might  have  told  me  you  were  coming." 

"  I  did  not  know  until  this  evening.  I  am  here 
on  duty.     The  ofifice  pays  for  this  fine  suit." 

Oliver  was  glad  when  he  moved  away.  He  had 
an  uneasy  feeling  that  between  Katherine  Gold- 
stein and  Francis  Luttrell  there  was  the  memory 
of  an  old  love-story.  He  saw  him  again  in  the 
evening.  In  his  golden  armour  he  was  sitting 
outside  the  throng,  writing  hard,  with  a  note-book 
on  his  knee-piece. 

The    hours    passed    by  swiftly.      Several  times 


140     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

Oliver  lost  Lady  Katherine.  She  was  taken  away 
from  him  by  a  Cardinal  in  his  long  silken  robes, 
which  swept  the  floor ;  by  a  Falstaff,  in  whom 
he  recognised  Bertram  Ordish ;  by  a  Henry  of 
Navarre,  who  was  Halliday  Wing  the  artist — he 
was  taking  a  holiday  from  his  brewer  in  the 
Midlands ;  by  a  Jester  with  jingling  bells  on  his 
cap  ;  by  many  other  splendid  or  fantastic  people, 
who  were  all  astonished  and  delighted  to  find 
Katherine  at  the  ball,  and,  as  it  seemed  to  Oliver, 
rather  surprised  that  she  should  have  come  without 
her  husband  and  with  this  young  David  Garrick, 
who  could  not  dance. 

That  was  Oliver's  tragedy.  He  had  to  stand 
apart  on  the  outside  circle  of  the  gay  crowd 
because  his  education  at  Denmark  Hill  had  not 
included  dancing-lessons.  He  cursed  his  fate, 
which  did  not  allow  him  to  take  Lady  Goldstein's 
hand  and  lead  her  into  the  heart  of  the  revels. 
Silent  and  moody,  with  folded  arms,  he  leant 
against  a  pillar,  his  eyes  rather  dizzy  with  all  this 
swift  movement  of  colour,  his  senses  swimming 
in  the  heat,  in  the  mingled  scents,  in  the  swish 
of  women's  skirts,  the  jingle  and  clatter  of  swords, 
shoulder-knots,  bells,  false  jewels  and  metal 
ornaments,  in  the  laughter  and  little  cries,  and 
the  murmur  of  many  voices. 

But  always  he  watched  for  Katherine  Gold- 
stein's muslin  frock,  and  for  her  big  straw  hat, 
and   for   her   fair   ringlets,  as   she   came   dancing 


A  Pageant  of  History      141 

round  the  room.  He  caught  swift  glances  of  her 
appearing  for  a  moment  among  the  great  crowd  of 
dancers,  and  then  disappearing  in  the  human  tide. 
Once  her  eyes  flashed  into  his  as  she  glided 
swiftly  past.  She  seemed  to  be  laughing  at  his 
solemn  face.  He  felt  out  in  the  cold.  There 
were  moments  when  he  accused  her  in  his  heart  of 
outrageous  cruelty.  Had  he  not  paid  for  her 
ticket  and  brought  her  to  the  ball  ?  Why  should 
these  other  men  pluck  her  away  from  him  ?  Yet 
he  recovered  his  spirits  when  he  regained  her 
during  the  supper  hour.  She  was  flushed  and 
tired,  but  still  excited. 

"  I  crave  for  an  ice  !  " 

He  fetched  her  one  quickly,  and  they  sat  at 
a  little  table  and  watched  the  procession  of  people 
passing  them.  She  took  an  endless  interest  in 
their  costumes. 

"  Strange,  how  we  like  to  dress  up  !  We  are  all 
children  at  heart." 

"  It  is  the  game  of  make-believe,"  said  Oliver. 
"  The  best  thing  in  life.  Here  to-night  we  are 
princes,  and  nobles,  and  merry  clowns,  and  colum- 
bines. To-morrow  we  are  just  ordinary  mortals  in 
a  drab  world." 

He  touched  her  wine-glass  with  his  own. 

"  To  the  spirit  of  divine  youth  !  Let  us  play  the 
game  to-night,  and  laugh  while  we  may.  If  only 
the  dream  would  last  without  a  waking !  " 

She  laughed  at  him  then. 


142     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

"  You  are  a  funny  boy,  Roly  !  Any  one  would 
think  you  were  living  on  the  brink  of  a  tragedy." 

She  touched  his  hand  as  it  rested  on  the  table, 
and  fingered  his  ruffles. 

"  It  was  good  of  you  to  bring  me  here.  It  has 
taken  me  back  to  the  old  days  before  I  was  the  wife 
of  a  rich  man.     I  seem  a  girl  again  to-night !  " 

She  was  not  much  more  than  a  girl  at  any  time, 
and  half  an  hour  later  she  was  with  a  group  of 
mediaeval  knights  and  ladies  in  a  box  on  the  upper 
tier,  flinging  confetti  to  the  crowd  below. 

Oliver  had  lost  her  in  the  throng.  He  went 
in  quest  of  her  rather  angrily.  He  almost  believed 
that  she  had  given  him  the  slip  intentionally.  He 
was  walking  down  a  corridor  with  searching, 
sombre  eyes,  when  a  light  hand  was  laid  on  his 
arm,  and  a  girl's  voice  said, "  We  have  been  looking 
for  you  everywhere,  Roly  !  " 

He  saw  a  tall  girl,  dressed  in  a  flowered  muslin 
gown,  with  a  lace  cap  on  her  hair.  For  a  moment 
he  did  not  recognise  her.     Then  he  was  amazed. 

"  Galatea ! " 

It  was  his  sister,  and  she  laughed  at  his  surprise. 

"You  see  Cinderella  has  come  to  the  ball  after 
all ! " 

"  How  on  earth  did  you  get  here  ?  "  asked  Oliver. 
Then  he  saw  that  the  Persian  Prince  by  her  side 
was  Charles  Hardy, 

"  I  had  the  pleasure  of  taking  tea  with  your 
family  yesterday,"  said  the  Persian  Prince,  "and 


A  Pageant  of  History     143 

your  sister  was  good  enough  to  accept  my  invi- 
tation to  the  ball.  By  good  luck  I  had  two 
tickets." 

He  was  magnificent  in  a  long  robe  of  shot  silk, 
and  his  face  was  stained  a  golden-brown.  He 
handled  a  long  carved  scimitar  with  a  painted  hilt, 
and  he  looked  at  Oliver  with  a  whimsical  smile,  as 
though  pleased  with  his  astonishment, 

Oliver  was  not  only  astonished.  He  was  annoyed. 
He  could  not  understand  why  Hardy  should  have 
gone  to  the  house  in  Denmark  Hill  without  saying 
anything  to  him  about  it.  And  it  did  not  seem  to 
him  quite  right  that  his  sister  should  come  with 
him  alone  to  the  ball.  He  was  not  quite  sure 
whether  Hardy  was  a  fit  companion  for  Galatea. 

"  Did  the  mater  allow  you  to  come  ?  It  is  rather 
unconventional,  isn't  it?" 

"  My  dear  Roly,"  said  Galatea  very  calmly,  "  I 
am  not  a  child.     Please  don't  be  absurd." 

"  I  hear  you  have  come  with  Katherine  Gold- 
stein," said  Hardy.  "  Is  that  strictly  according  to 
convention  ?  " 

He  gave  a  straight  look  at  Oliver,  and  for  some 
reason  Oliver's  eyes  dropped  before  that  gaze,  and 
a  slight  colour  mounted  into  his  cheeks. 

"  Anyhow,"  he  said  to  Galatea,  "  I  am  very  glad 
you  are  here.  I  simply  couldn't  afford  another 
ticket.  .  .  .  What  do  you  think  of  it  all  ?  " 

"  I  cannot  think  !  "  said  Galatea.  "  I  am  bewil- 
dered by  the  joy  of  it." 


144     Oliver's   Kind  Women 

A  party  of  Red  Indian  braves  came  flourishing 
tomahawks  down  the  corridor,  and  shouting  a  war- 
song  of  "  Hu  !  hu  !  hu  !  "  They  were  lusting  for 
the  blood  of  the  Prehistoric  Peep,  who  was  flying 
from  them.  Laughter  rang  out  on  either  side, 
people  scattered  down  the  passages,  little  screams 
came  from  a  bevy  of  pretty  girls — the  beauties  of 
the  nations — as  though  they  were  scared  by  those 
painted  savages  with  their  tomahawks,  A  new 
party  of  revellers  came  rushing  by,  and  when  they 
had  passed  Oliver  looked  round  for  Hardy  and  his 
sister,  but  they  had  disappeared. 

It  was  three  o'clock  in  the  morning  before  the 
attendants  under  the  portico  of  the  Opera  House 
shouted  "  Lady  Goldstein's  carriage  !  "  It  was 
twenty  past  three  before  Oliver  stood  with  Katherine 
on  the  steps  of  31,  Pont  Street.  Smithers  opened 
the  door,  stifling  a  yawn. 

"  Well,  good  night !  "  said  Oliver.  "  I  shall  never 
forget  this  evening." 

"  Come  in  for  a  glass  of  hot  milk  and  some 
biscuits.  It  seems  ages  since  we  had  anything  to 
eat     I  am.  starving." 

She  caught  him  by  the  wrist  and  led  him  inside. 

"  Smithers,  if  you  are  faithful  to  me,  you  have 
not  forgotten  my  request  about  the  milk." 

"  My  lady,  it  is  not  my  habit  to  forget." 

Lady  Goldstein  smiled  at  his  imperturbable  con- 
ceit, and  went  into  the  dining-room  with  Oliver. 
Then  she  uttered  a  sharp  exclamation. 


A  Pageant  of  History      145 

"  What,  Rudy,  haven't  you  gone  to  bed  ?  " 

Rudolf  Goldstein  was  standing  with  his  back  to 
the  fire,  with  his  hands  behind  his  back,  very  stiffly. 

"  I  do  not  care  to  go  to  bed  when  my  wife  stays 
out  so  late  with  comparative  strangers." 

"  Comparative  fiddlesticks,  my  dear  ! "  said 
Katherine  very  coolly,  but  with  a  sudden  pursing 
up  of  the  lips. 

She  turned  to  Oliver. 

"  We  have  had  a  lovely  time,  haven't  we  ?  " 

"  Ripping  !  "  said  Oliver. 

But  he  lowered  his  eyes  before  the  hard,  unfriendly 
looks  of  Katherine's  husband. 

"  I  wished  you  had  been  there,  Rudy ! "  said 
Katherine,  going  up  to  her  husband,  and  putting 
her  hand  upon  his  shoulder. 

He  held  himself  very  straight,  and  did  not  bend 
to  kiss  his  beautiful  wife. 

"  If  you  had  thought  of  me  at  all,"  he  said 
gravely,  "  I  think  you  would  have  come  back 
earlier,  Katherine.     I  have  been  anxious." 

"Oh,  now  your  Lutheran  instincts  are  coming 
out !  "  said  Katherine. 

He  did  not  answer  that  shaft  of  satire. 

He  stood  twisting  his  little  fair  moustache 
while  Katherine  served  Oliver  with  hot  milk  and 
biscuits,  which  Smithers  brought  in  on  a  silver 
tray.  Katherine  chatted  gaily,  but  Oliver  could 
see  that  she  was  conscious  of  her  husband's  silence, 
and  annoyed  by  it. 
10 


146     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

"  As  you  are  so  tired,  Rudolf,  perhaps  you  had 
better  go  to  bed," 

"  I  am  not  tired.  I  will  wait  until  Mr.  Oliver 
Lumley  has  satisfied  his  hunger." 

Katherine  laughed  very  merrily  at  that. 

"  What  a  German  way  of  expressing  a  hint ! 
Rudy,  don't  be  so  absurd  !  " 

Needless  to  say,  Oliver  did  not  linger  over  that 
refreshment.  He  took  his  leave  quickly  now,  and 
after  Katherine  had  given  him  her  hand  and  said, 
"  Thanks  again,  Roly,  for  a  beautiful  evening,"  he 
said  "  Good  night,  sir,"  to  Rudolf  Goldstein. 

Katherine's  husband  nodded  to  him,  and  it  was 
Smithers  who  showed  him  out. 

As  he  stood  in  Pont  Street  looking  up  and  down 
for  a  cab,  the  sky  was  just  faintly  flushed  with  the 
appearance  of  dawn.  A  moist  wind  flapped  his 
silk  coat.  He  felt  as  if  he  were  dressed  in  tissue 
paper.  He  had  to  walk  home  to  Westminster  as 
David  Garrick,  and  the  policemen  on  their  beats 
grinned  at  him. 

On  the  way  his  mind  dwelt  upon  the  details  of 
Katherine's  home-coming  in  Pont  Street.  He  was 
convinced  now  that  she  was  the  victim  of  a 
miserable  marriage. 

"  Poor  little  lady  ! "  he  said.  "  I  wish  to  Heaven 
I  could  comfort  her  I  " 


CHAPTER   XX 
An  Accusation 

Oliver  had  several  surprises  during  the  next  few 
weeks  which  left  him  with  a  rather  chastened 
spirit.  The  first  of  these  was  when  he  paid  a 
flying  visit  home  and  found  Charles  Plardy  down 
on  his  knees  on  the  hearth-rug  toasting  muffins 
with  Galatea, 

Galatea's  cheeks  were  red-hot,  and  when  Hardy 
burned  one  side  of  a  muffin  as  black  as  his  hat  she 
rebuked  him  with  a  little  slap  on  the  arm,  which 
showed  that  they  had  reached  the  stage  of  fami- 
liarity in  friendship,  though  without  contempt. 

Oliver  was  astonished  indeed  to  find  how  much 
Hardy  was  at  home  in  Rosemary  Avenue.  He 
took  possession  of  that  arm-chair  which  had  been 
Oliver's  by  right  of  tenure,  the  tabby  cat  curled 
itself  up  in  his  lap  as  though  he  were  a  tried 
and  trusty  friend,  and  Horace — never  quick  to 
cultivate  an  acquaintance — called  him  "  old  man." 

It  appeared  that  after  the  night  at  the  theatre 
Mrs.  Lumley,  at  Galatea's  prompting,  had  invited 
him  to  tea  (they  found  his  address  in  the  tele- 
phone book),  and  he  had  not  only  accepted,  but 
came,  and  stayed  for  several  hours.  They  had 
147 


148     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

had  a  musical  evening,  for  Hardy  had  a  good 
baritone  voice,  and  sang  "  Sally  in  Our  Alley," 
"  Tom  Bowling,"  "  Kathleen  Mavourneen  "  and 
other  songs  from  a  shilling  album,  to  Galatea's 
accompaniment. 

Since  that  evening  he  had  called  three  times 
after  supper,  and  into  the  small  household  of 
Denmark  Hill  he  brought  a  new  spirit  of  happi- 
ness and  gaiety.  He  told  the  most  interesting 
stories  of  newspaper  life ;  he  had  a  fund  of  quiet 
humour  which  delighted  them  all,  and  he  behaved 
with  the  greatest  courtesy  to  Mr.  Lumley,  even 
listening  with  patience  to  his  views  on  the  political 
situation  from  a  Conservative  poin*"  of  view. 

But  to  all  of  them  the  object  of  his  visit  was 
clear  enough.  His  tenderness  to  Galatea  was  not 
concealed  It  was  to  her  that  he  turned  most 
often  when  he  was  telling  his  stories.  He  was 
always  quick  to  spring  to  the  door  when  she  went 
out  into  the  kitchen  ;  he  had  even  insisted  upon 
helping  her  '  wash  up "  the  supper  things  one 
night  when  the  maid  had  gone  out. 

That  last  act  of  chivalry  endeared  him  to  them. 
Mr.  Lumley  quoted  the  old  proverb  "  Noblesse 
oblige,"  but  Mrs.  Lumley  vowed  that  she  would 
never  have  believed  in  such  humility  by  a  dis- 
tinguished young  man  unless  she  had  seen  it  with 
her  own  eyes. 

She  angered  her  husband  very  much  one  night 
by  stating  her  belief  that  Mr.  Hardy  was  in  love 


An  Accusation  149 

with  Galatea.  He  rebuked  her  severely  for  in- 
dulging in  such  foolish  ideas,  and  forbade  her 
to  mention  such  a  thing  to  the  girl  herself.  She 
accepted  the  rebuke  more  meekly  than  was  her 
wont,  guessing  intuitively  that  her  husband  had 
exactly  the  same  idea,  though  he  did  not  dare 
to  express  his  hope.  She  lay  awake  at  night 
hoping  and  praying  that  Galatea  might  win  such 
an  admirable  and  well-to-do  young  man,  and  her 
thoughts  flew  so  fast  that  she  forgot  that  Charles 
Hardy  had  spent  only  three  evenings  with  them. 

Galatea  herself  seemed  to  have  acquired  a  new 
beauty.  There  was  a  softer  light  in  her  eyes  and 
a  richer  colour  in  her  cheeks.  She  was  conscious 
that  her  family  were  watching  her,  and  often  she 
blushed  to  find  their  eyes  upon  her,  or  to  see  a 
smile  about  their  lips  when  Hardy's  name  was 
mentioned. 

Oliver  was  disconcerted  to  find  his  friend  so 
securely  established  at  home.  For  the  first  time 
in  his  life  he  played  second  fiddle  in  that  barely 
furnished  parlour.  The  attentions  of  his  father 
and  mother  were  all  for  Hardy.  His  conversation, 
not  Oliver's,  interested  them  most  deeply.  Even 
Horace  said  a  blunt  word  of  displeasure  when 
Oliver  interrupted  one  of  Hardy's  stories  by  an 
ironical  laugh,  as  though  he  were  pulling  the  long 
bow. 

Oliver  became  moody  and  silent,  and  then 
savage,  because  his  moodiness  and   silence   ^vere 


150     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

quite  unobserved  by  his  people,  and  therefore  had 
no  effect  upon  their  spirits.  He  began  to  feel 
strangely  jealous  of  this  young  man,  whose  lightest 
word  would  arouse  the  gaiety  of  the  family  group. 
He  had  a  miserable  sense  of  being  neglected  by 
those  who  had  admired  him  as  their  hero,  and 
who  had  been  abashed  by  his  social  success. 

Then  later  in  the  evening  a  thunderbolt  fell 
upon  him.  Hardy  had  gone,  and  Mr.  Lumley 
beckoned  his  son  into  the  little  room  he  called 
his  study.  He  seemed  somewhat  embarrassed, 
as  though  he  had  something  unpleasant  to  say, 
and  Oliver  had  an  instinctive  feeling  that  he  was 
about  to  discuss  financial  matters. 

He  was  right.  After  some  hesitation,  and  a 
slight  attack  of  coughing,  his  father  explained  that 
he  was  under  the  painful  necessity  of  withdrawing 
his  allowance  of  a  pound  a  week. 

"  But,  my  dear  guv'nor,"  said  Oliver,  more 
startled  than  he  cared  to  show. 

"  It  is  like  this,"  said  his  father,  "  my  chiefs  have 
taken  an  objection  to  my  earning  so  much  over- 
time. They  say  it  is  not  fair  on  the  younger  men. 
They  advise  me,  for  my  own  sake,  to  return  to  my 
ordinary  hours." 

"  And  that  means  ?  " 

"  That  means  I  cannot  possibly  make  those 
monthly  advances  to  you." 

Oliver  was  silent.  He  knew  that  this  with- 
drawal would  be  a  serious  thing  for  him. 


An  Accusation  151 

"  As  a  matter  of  fact,"  said  Mr.  Lumley,  speak- 
ing nervously  now,  "  I  was  wondering,  Roly, 
whether  you  could  see  your  way  to  pay  nne  back 
some  of  that  money.  I  have  to  stint  and  scrape 
to  make  both  ends  meet.  It  is  telling  on  my 
health,  and  it  is  not  fair  on  your  mother  and  sister. 
Galatea  may  need  a  few  pretty  frocks  to  wear  now 
that  she  is— er — getting  into  good  society." 

"Good  Lord  !"  said  Oliver,  laughing  scornfully, 
"you  are  not  counting  upon  Hardy's  flirtation,  I 
hope  ! " 

He  made  use  of  this  as  a  safety-valve  for  his 
annoyance,  and  he  saw  with  satisfaction  that  his 
father  was  angered. 

"  I  made  no  reference  to  Mr.  Hardy,"  he  said 
with  dignity.  "  Nor  do  I  like  the  word  '  flirta- 
tion ! '  Mr.  Hardy  is  a  perfectly  honourable  young 
man." 

"  So  are  they  all — all  honourable  men  !  " 

"  I  trust  you  know  nothing  against  his  character, 
for  dear  Galatea's  sake." 

Mr.  Lumley  was  anxious  now  ;  and  Oliver 
alarmed  him  when  he  said  that  Hardy  was  a  weak, 
amiable  fellow,  whose  vanity  was  stirred  by  any 
woman's  admiration. 

"  At  the  Wastrels,"  said  Oliver,  "  they  laugh  at 
his  insufferable  conceit." 

Mr.  Lumley  waved  the  matter  on  one  side,  as 
though  it  were  not  worth  discussing. 

"  Let  us  get  back  to  business, '  he  said. 


152     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

There  was  a  rather  rasping  tone  in  his  voice. 
To  Oliver's  astonishment,  his  father  spoke  with  a 
bitterness  and  a  sarcasm  which  were  quite  unpre- 
cedented in  his  character.  Evidently  he  had  been 
brooding  over  things,  and  had  worked  himself  up 
into  a  state  of  excitement.  For  the  first  time  in 
his  life  Oliver  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  struggle, 
and  disappointment,  and  revolt  in  his  father's 
heart. 

He  spoke  of  his  long  years  of  toil  for  his  family, 
of  his  mean  little  economies,  of  his  daily  drudgery 
at  the  office.  He  had  never  been  able  to  afford 
those  things  which  would  have  relieved  the  mono- 
tony of  life  for  himself  and  his  wife.  They  had 
devoted  themselves  to  the  children,  and  now  they 
looked  for  some  reward.  Oliver  had  promised 
them  help.  They  had  expected  him  to  contribute 
to  the  household  expenses,  to  relieve  them  of  the 
haunting  fear  of  debt,  and  to  lighten  the  burden 
of  their  declining  years.  But  what  had  happened  ? 
None  of  his  promises  had  been  fulfilled.  On  the 
contrary,  he  had  made  heavy  demands  upon  their 
poor  income.  He  had  borrowed  money  continu- 
ally, not  only  from  his  father,  but  from  Horace. 
Yet  he  himself  was  living  a  life  of  ease  and  luxury. 
He  was  enjoying  himself  in  high  society. 

"  It  is  not  fair !  "  said  Mr.  Lumley,  "  It  is  unfair 
to  your  mother,  to  Horace,  to  Galatea,  and  to  me. 
As  a  successful  literary  man  you  have  no  right  to 
lay  this  burden  upon  us  " 


An  Accusation  153 

"  Successful  literary  man  !  "  said  Oliver.  "  Good 
God !     I  am  a  dead  failure." 

It  was  the  first  time  that  he  had  made  a  con- 
fession of  failure.  And  he  saw,  with  a  sense  of 
bitter  irony,  that  his  father  did  not  believe  him. 
He  had  talked  so  often  of  success  that  now  his 
father  took  it  for  granted. 

Oliver  was  pale.  His  dark  eyes  had  a  smoul- 
dering fire  in  them. 

"  Who  has  been  talking  to  you  ? "  he  asked, 
almost  violently.  "  Who  has  been  putting  all  these 
ideas  into  your  head  ?  I  believe  Hardy  has  been 
meddling  with  my  affairs.  By  the  Lord,  if  he  has, 
I  will  break  his  head  ! " 

"  You  are  entirely  in  error,"  said  Mr.  Lumley. 
"  Mr.  Hardy  does  not  discuss  you  in  any  way. 
The  truth  about  you  gradually  dawned  upon  me." 

"  The  truth  about  me  ?  " 

"The  truth  about  your  selfishness." 

Oliver  rose  from  his  chair,  and  a  flame  of  colour 
swept  into  his  face. 

"  By  Heaven,  I  did  not  think  my  own  father 
would  ever  speak  to  me  like  this  ! " 

"It  has  not  been  easy.  It  was  only  the  sternest 
sense  of  duty  that  impelled  me  to  do  so." 

A  silence  fell  upon  them,  and  then  Oliver  said, 
"  It  is  late.     I  will  go." 

He  went  into  the  next  room,  and  said  Good-night 
to  his  mother.  She  guessed  that  something  un- 
pleasant had  been  happening  between  her  husband 


154     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

and  son.  She  kissed  him  upon  the  forehead,  and 
said,  "What  is  the  matter,  my  dearest  boy?  "  He 
did  not  answer,  but  went  out  into  the  hall  and  put 
on  his  things.  His  father  still  stayed  in  his  study. 
Horace  came  out  into  the  passage,  and  shut  the 
dining-room  door. 

"  I  say,  old  man,  could  you  possibly  return  a 
little  of  that  brass  I  have  lent  you  from  time  to 
time  ?  I  am  frightfully  shabby  and  as  hard  up  as 
usual.     If  it  wouldn't  be  troubling  you.  .  .  ." 

"  What,  you,  too  ? "  said  Oliver.  "  I  believe 
there  is  a  damned  conspiracy  against  me  ! " 

He  went  out  of  the  house  without  another  word, 
and  slammed  the  front  door  after  him. 

He  walked  to  the  tramcar  with  a  white  face 
and  burning  eyes.  It  seemed  to  him  that  his 
family  had  turned  against  him.  After  all  his 
kindness  to  them,  after  all  his  promises,  and  his 
generous  intentions,  they  had  become  hostile  to 
him.  He  could  not  understand  it.  He  honestly 
believed  that  Hardy  must  have  poisoned  their 
hearts  against  him. 

"  By  the  Lord,  I  will  be  even  with  him ! "  he 
muttered  ;  but  on  the  way  home  a  sense  of  misery 
settled  down  upon  him.  His  father  had  spoken 
outrageous  things.  He  had  accused  him  of  selfish- 
ness— though  if  there  were  any  fault  with  him,  he 
thought,  it  was  his  almost  reckless  desire  to  do 
good  to  other  people.  Man  as  he  was,  he  could 
have  shed  weak  tears  at  this  injustice. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

The  Charity  of  Women 

Oliver  had  a  great  need  of  sympathy,  and  he 
turned  with  his  trouble  to  that  fount  which  never 
fails — at  least,  hardly  ever — the  heart  of  woman. 

He  wrote  a  long  letter  to  Virginia  Garland,  that 
lady  in  the  country  from  whom  he  still  received 
little  remembrances — the  first  snowdrops  that  had 
poked  up  their  heads  in  the  January  garden,  and 
afterwards  the  first  violets,  a  book  of  poems  by 
Francis  Thompson,  a  small  engraving  of  Raphael's 
"  Madonna  and  Child,"  a  pot  of  cream,  a  basket 
of  primroses  lined  with  moss. 

The  letter  was  written  late  at  night,  and  it 
seemed  as  though  he  dipped  his  pen  in  tears.  He 
confessed  that  his  struggle  with  poverty  was  wear- 
ing him  down.  It  was  turning  his  blood  to  water. 
It  was  robbing  him  of  his  inspiration.  Always 
the  wolf  sat  upon  his  door-step  with  open  jaws. 
He  was  bitter  with  the  folly  of  the  time.  Only 
the  impostors  of  literature  obtained  recognition, 
the  sensationalists  and  the  slap-dash  humbugs  of 
shoddy  trash.  The  men  who  took  their  art  seriously, 
who  went  to  life  for  their  models  and  to  the  old 
moralities  for  their  ideals,  were  ignored  or  flouted. 
155 


156     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

He  hinted  that  for  art's  sake  he  had  lost  the 
affection  of  his  family  and  friends.  If  only  he  had 
gone  into  business,  with  money  for  his  god,  he 
would  have  been  honoured  and  loved.  But  be- 
cause he  had  given  his  soul  to  higher  things  he 
was  despised  and  wounded. 

Worse  than  all  was  the  feeling  of  staleness  and 
weariness  that  was  creeping  over  him  and  deaden- 
ing his  sensibilities.  He  felt  that  he  must  escape — 
escape  from  this  cruel,  callous  London  and  bathe 
his  spirit  in  the  pure  springs  of  some  fairer,  quieter 
spot. 

It  was  a  rather  good  letter,  and  Oliver  admired 
it  when  he  read  it  through  to  himself  He  was 
moved  to  self-pity  by  the  analytical  study  of  his 
own  misery. 

Two  days  later  he  had  an  answer  from  Miss 
Virginia  Garland.  He  opened  the  letter  eagerly, 
and  held  the  envelope  upside  down,  in  case  there 
should  be  an  enclosure.  The  thought  had  jumped 
into  his  brain  that  perhaps  Miss  Garland  might 
have  sent  another  gift.  He  was  mistaken.  Her 
words  were  full  of  womanly  sympathy.  She 
thanked  him  for  telling  her  of  his  unhappiness, 
and  she  begged  him  to  believe  that  his  confidence 
would  be  respected.  She  could  say  only  one 
word  to  him — courage.  She  would  say  it  now. 
"  Courage !  "  Poverty  must  be  hard  to  bear  when 
it  became  wearing  to  the  nerves  and  spirits,  most 
hard  wher-  it  alienated  the  affections  of  those  most 


The  Charity  of  Women      157 

dearly  loved.  But  genius  had  always  flourished 
best  in  poorest  soil.  All  the  struggles  of  a  literary 
man,  all  his  disappointments,  must  surely  bring 
him  closer  to  the  great  truth  of  life  and  make  his 
work  strike  deeper  down  into  the  heart  of  truth. 

It  was  a  short  and  serious  letter,  but  the  last 
paragraph  had  a  charming  simplicity. 

"Can  you  not  get  away  from  town,  as  you  suggest, 
to  a  quiet  spot  ?  Here  in  the  country  living  is  very 
cheap.  I  know  a  cottage — a  hundred  feet  from  my 
garden  wall — as  pretty  as  a  picture  in  a  fairy  tale. 
It  is  only  six  shillings  a  week,  and  my  kitchen 
gardens  and  poultry  runs  are  so  well  stocked  that 
I  hardly  know  what  to  do  with  the  produce  of  them. 
Perhaps  in  such  a  cottage  you  might  write  your 
great  novel." 

Oliver  was  touched  by  that.  Those  lines  con- 
jured up  a  pleasant  vision.  Even  to  have  Virginia 
Garland  for  a  next-door  neighbour  would  surely  be 
delightful.  Supposing  he  were  to  set  off  on  that 
adventure,  and  shake  the  dust  of  London  from  his 
shoes  ?  For  a  moment  he  was  tempted  ,  but  the 
face  of  Katherine  Goldstein  came  between  his 
eyes  and  the  picture  of  that  country  cottage. 

There  were  other  faces,  too,  which  he  would  miss 
if  he  confessed  to  failure  and  tramped  off  to  the 
country-side.  He  would  miss  the  laughing  faces 
of  Livvy  and  Doris,  those  two  actress  girls  who 
were  always  ready  for  a  little  fun  and  frolic  with 


158      Oliver's  Kind  Women 

him,  and  all  the  boys  at  the  Wastrels,  and  all  those 
people  up  and  down  the  streets  of  London  who 
had  given  him  their  friendship  and  their  smiles. 

He  went  to  Livvy  O'Brien  and  Doris  Fortescue 
for  sympathy,  and  afternoon  tea,  in  the  Kennington 
Road.  They  gave  him  the  tea  willingly  enough, 
and  also  some  cake  (made  by  the  landlady,  and 
rather  heavy),  but  they  pretended  to  hesitate  about 
the  sympathy. 

Oliver  began  with  a  lurid  account  of  his  woes. 

"  I  ,am  stony-broke,"  he  said  ;  "  I  am  absolutely 
up  a  gum-tree,  my  dear  girls.  There  will  be  no 
more  of  those  nice  little  dinners  in  Soho,  Livvy. 
I  can't  afford  to  bring  you  any  more  boxes  of 
chocolates,  Doris.  That  delightful  week-end  at 
Brighton  must  not  be  repeated,  dear  children.  It 
cost  too  much  money,  and  I  must  effect  rigid 
economies.  No  more  taxis.  No  more  Sunday 
afternoon  concerts.  I  have  nothing  to  give,  but 
only  a  lot  to  ask.  I  want  your  comradeship,  your 
laughter,  and  the  goodness  of  your  hearts." 

The  speech  was  not  received  in  the  manner  he 
had  expected.  The  girls  did  not  burst  into  tears, 
or  throw  their  arms  about  his  neck. 

"  Goodness  gracious  !  "  said  Livvy.  "  All  this  is 
very  serious." 

She  turned  to  Doris. 

"  Doris,  darling,  we  shall  have  to  be  very  careful 
about  this  young  man.  We  shall  have  to  reconsider 
our  position  towards  him." 

SAiNT  ANTHONY'S  SEMINARY 
SANTA    BAR.BARA.    CALIF.- 


The  Charity  of  Women      159 

"  We  shall,  indeed  !  "  said  Doris.  "  No  more 
dinners  in  Soho,  did  you  say,  Roly?" 

"  No  more  dinners  in  Soho ! "  said  Oliver 
gloomily. 

"  No  more  boxes  of  chocolates.  Did  I  under- 
stand you  to  say  that,  Roly  ?  "  said  Doris. 

"  That  is  so,"  said  Oliver,  still  more  gloomily. 

"  Not  another  week-end  at  Brighton  ? "  asked 
Livvy  with  an  air  of  anxiety. 

"  Absolutely  not,"  said  Oliver. 

"  No  more  taxis  ?     No  more  Sunday  concerts  ?  " 

"  You  speak  the  truth,"  said  Oliver. 

"  Sure,  then,"  said  Livvy,  in  the  absurd  brogue 
which  she  sometimes  affected, "  what  is  the  good  of 
this  young  man  at  all,  at  all  ?  " 

"  What  is  there  to  be  got  out  of  him  ?  "  asked 
Doris. 

"  Why  have  we  wasted  so  much  of  our  time 
and  affection  upon  this  impecunious  young  fellow  ?  " 
asked  Doris, 

"  Where  is  the  exalted  marriage  which  one  of 
us  hoped  to  make  with  him  ?  "  asked  Livvy. 

"  Our  hopes  are  dashed  !  "  said  Doris. 

"  We  are  undone  !  "  said  Livvy. 

Oliver  looked  very  miserable  indeed.  He  did 
not  know  how  much  of  truth  there  was  in  the  words 
of  these  two  girls  who  had  been  good  chums  with 
him.  They  both  looked  at  him  searchingly,  and 
they  both  laughed  and  laughed. 

"  What  a  boy  it  is  !  "  said  Livvy,  wiping  a  little 


i6o     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

tear  out  of  one  of  her  eyes.  "  He  has  taken  us 
quite  seriously." 

She  went  over  to  OHver,  and  took  both  his 
hands  and  looked  up  into  his  face. 

"  Are  you  really  hard  up,  Roly  ? " 

"  Really  and  truly  !  " 

"  I'm  sorry  !  "  said  Livvy. 

*'  So  am  I,"  said  Doris,  eating  a  bit  of  cake, 
"  Beastly  sorry." 

"You  have  been  a  real  good  pal  to  us,"  said 
Livvy. 

"  I'm  glad,"  said  Oliver.  "  I  am  glad  it  will 
make  no  difference  to  you  because  I  can't  bring 
pretty  things  and  give  you  any  more  fun  for  a  little 
time," 

"  So  am  I,"  said  Doris,  still  eating  the  cake. 
"  Beastly  glad."  She  corrected  herself,  and  said, 
"  Beastly  sorry,  I  mean.  At  least,  I  don't  know 
what  the  dickens  I  do  mean," 

Livvy  released  Oliver's  hand  and  went  to  the 
chest  of  drawers  and  brought  out  a  bag  of  green 
silk. 

*'  Doris,"  she  said,  "  how  much  have  you  got  in 
that  cash  box  of  yours  ?  " 

"  Two  pounds  eight  and  a  penny," 

Livvy  opened  the  bag  and  poured  on  to  the 
table  a  number  of  silver  pieces,  and  a  few  bits  of 
gold. 

"  Five  pounds  odd,"  she  said.  Then  she  looked 
up  at  Oliver. 


The  Charity  of  Women     i6i 

"  If  that  is  any  good  to  you,  Roly,  it  is  yours. 
Now  you  are  not  going  to  be  proud  and 
haughty  ?  " 

"  Good  God  ! "  said  Oliver.     "  Good  God  !  " 

"  I  stand  in  with  Livvy,"  said  Doris,  "  though  I 
shall  have  to  give  up  eating  cake." 

"  My  dear  girls !  You  are  the  best  in  the 
world.  But  I  wouldn't  dream  of  touching  a  penny 
of  your  little  earnings.  I  did  not  come  here  to 
beg.' 

"  Now,  didn't  I  say  he  was  proud  and  haughty  !  " 
said  Livvy,  glaring  at  him.  "  What  ridiculous 
nonsense !  As  if  friends  should  not  help  each 
other  when  they're  down  on  their  luck  !  " 

Oliver  would  not  touch  the  money,  but  his  heart 
was  softened  more  than  he  could  remember,  and 
when  he  said  good-bye  that  night  he  caught  hold 
of  Livvy's  hands  and  kissed  her. 

"  You  are  a  brick  ! "  he  said,  "  a  perfect 
brick ! " 

She  blushed  furiously,  and  said  that  he  really 
must  not  do  that  again  or  she  would  be  very 
angry  with  him.  Doris  said  that  if  he  tried  the 
same  thing  on  with  her  she  would  give  him  "  what 
for." 

But  they  were  both  laughing  when  he  went 
down  the  stairs  from  their  lodgings,  and  the  next 
morning  when  Oliver  opened  his  letters  there  was 
one  from  which  fell  five  postal  orders  for  a  pound 
each.  They  were  wrapped  round  in  a  sheet  of 
II 


1 62     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

notepaper  on  which  were  the  words,  "  With  love 
from  Livvy  and  Doris." 

Oliver  did  not  send  back  the  money.  He  used 
it  to  pay  Mrs.  Trant,  his  landlady,  a  sum  on 
account  of  sixteen  weeks'  lodging  and  washing. 
It  mollified  her  a  little  and  checked  her  threats 
of  immediate  eviction. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

Gay  Adventures 

We  have  seen  that  in  the  troubles  clouding  his 
young  career  Mr.  Oliver  Lumley  turned  for  com- 
fort to  his  women  friends  and  received  from  them 
consolation  and  charity. 

But  he  did  not  forget  his  resolution  to  brighten 
the  spirits  of  a  lady  whose  heart  was  bleeding,  he 
believed,  in  a  most  unhappy  home-life.  He  became 
the  knight-errant  and  faithful  servant  of  Katherine, 
Lady  Goldstein.  He  devised  merry  adventures 
for  her,  and  she,  glad  to  escape  from  what  she 
called  the  Dismal  Dumps  (these  evil  creatures 
sometimes  waylaid  her  when  she  was  left  alone), 
accepted  his  invitations  willingly. 

For  a  lady  living  in  Pont  Street  (with  a  front 
door  guarded  by  Smithers)  and  dressing  in  most 
expensive  frocks,  and  related  by  marriage  to 
many  wealthy  Germans  residing  at  Sydenham  and 
Hampstead,  in  big  white  houses  in  which  pro- 
priety sat  enthroned,  these  expeditions  with  Oliver 
were  rather  strange  and  somewhat  indiscreet. 

Their  visit  to  the  Tower,  however,  was  quite 
harmless.  There  was  no  reason  why  Lady  Gold- 
stein should  not,  as  she  did,  conjure  up  the  fair 

163 


164     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

ghosts  of  history  whose  heads  had  been  chopped 
off  within  those  grim  old  walls,  pretend  to  be 
Lady  Jane  Grey  in  the  Bloody  Tower,  as  Queen 
Elizabeth  order  the  instant  decapitation  of  Oliver 
Lumley  on  a  charge  of  high  treason,  and  dab  her 
eyes  with  a  lace  pocket-handkerchief  in  the  Church 
of  St.  Peter  ad  Vincula  at  the  thought  of  all  the 
gallant  men  and  beautiful  women  whose  dust  lay 
beneath  those  stones. 

No  soul  alive  could  take  exception  to  their  visits 
to  the  National  Gallery,  where  Katherine  and  Oliver 
stood  entranced  before  the  glories  of  Raphael 
and  Titian,  or,  on  students'  days,  laughed  with 
suppressed  merriment  at  the  long-haired  boys,  the 
red-haired  ladies  in  blue  pinafores,  the  old  ladies 
and  gentlemen,  who,  on  high  ladders,  made  careful 
copies  of  little  masterpieces  and  talked  Art  while 
they  munched  theirsandwiches  in  the  luncheon  hour. 

But  things  began  to  go  a  little  too  far  when 
Lady  Goldstein  went  with  Oliver  one  evening  to 
Barnet  Fair,  and  in  the  glare  of  the  paraffin  lamps, 
in  the  raucous  din  of  clanging  bells,  steam-trumpets, 
mouth-organs,  and  hoarse-voiced  mirth  in  a  jostling, 
eddying  crowd  of  costers,  East-End  Jews,  horse- 
dealers,  gipsies,  tramps,  and  thieves,  wandered  from 
booth  to  booth,  and  watched  this  drama  of  low- 
class  humanity. 

Even  Oliver  became  rather  nervous. 

"  This  is  too  rough,"  he  said.  "  I  think  we  had 
better  get  out  of  it." 


Gay  Adventures  165 

Katherine  had  her  hand  tucked  through  his  arm 
and  kept  close  to  him,  but  she  would  not  hear  of 
going  until  she  had  seen  all  the  sights. 

"  It  has  been  the  one  ambition  of  my  life,"  she 
said,  "  to  see  a  Fat  Lady.  I  have  never  had  the 
pluck  to  go  through  the  curtain.  .  .  .  Don't  be  in 
a  hurry  to  go,  Roly.  This  is  Life.  This  is  the 
Real  Thing.  I  am  tremendously  interested.  We 
don't  do  this  sort  of  thing  in  Pont  Street." 

"  What  would  Smithers  say  if  he  saw  us  !  " 

They  both  laughed  like  children  who  were  play- 
ing truant  and  enjoying  stolen  fruits. 

Strange  smells  were  wafted  to  their  nostrils, 
smells  not  pleasant,  one  would  imagine,  to  a  lady 
of  quality.  They  came  from  fried-fish  stalls,  from 
oil  lamps,  from  onions  frizzling  in  boiling  grease. 
There  was  the  subtle,  acid  smell  of  humanity  in 
damp  and  dirty  clothes. 

Katherine  was  rather  wild.  She  insisted  upon 
trying  her  skill  in  the  rifle  range,  and  had  such  a 
pretty  skill  that  she  smashed  several  of  the  bottles 
put  up  as  targets,  and  called  forth  admiring  com- 
ments from  a  crowd  of  men  in  flat  caps  with 
scarves  round  their  necks,  and  from  frowsy  young 
women  in  velveteen  dresses  and  big  hats  with 
feathers. 

"  Gord's  troof !  She  do  knock  'em  abaht !  "  said 
one  young  woman,  staring  into  her  face. 

"She's  giving  'em  'Ounsditch!"  said  a  youth 
with  a  big  greasy  curl  in  the  middle  of  his  fore- 


1 66     Oliver's   Kind  Women 

head  and  a  bowler  hat  thrust  to  the  back  of  his 
head. 

The  crowd  showed  a  rather  embarrassing  interest 
in  the  pretty  lady  and  the  handsome  young  man 
who  had  come  to  Barnet  Fair  in  a  silk  hat  and 
a  well-cut  morning  suit  and  doeskin  gloves. 

Oliver  touched  Katherine's  arm. 

"  Let's  move  on.  It's  getting  late.  We  ought 
to  get  back." 

"  I  insist  on  seeing  the  Fat  Woman  ! "  said 
Katherine.  "  I  decline  to  go  until  I  have  gazed 
upon  her." 

So  they  paid  their  pennies  and  went  through 
the  curtain  of  a  booth.  Outside  a  red-faced  man 
was  shouting  as  though  he  were  deliberately  trying 
to  break  a  blood-vessel,  "  Walk  up,  walk  up,  and 
see  the  Fattest  Woman  on  earth.  The  greatest 
sight  in  the  world.  The  hadmiration  of  King 
George  and  all  the  Roile  Family  ! " 

Inside  was  a  crowd  of  giggling  girls  and  foul- 
mouthed  young  men.  Some  dirty  straw  was  on 
the  ground,  trampled  with  mud,  and  exhaling  a 
fetid  stench.  From  behind  a  curtain  came — not 
the  Fat  Lady,  but  a  filthy  negro,  half  naked,  and 
with  an  apron  of  feathers.  He  went  through  a 
pantomime  of  offering  up  a  human  sacrifice, 
growling  and  roaring  like  a  wild  beast,  and  rolling 
his  eyes  horribly.  Then  he  danced  himself  into  a 
kind  of  maniacal  ecstasy.  It  seemed  to  be  the  last 
degradation  of  humanity.     This  negro, "^  for  a  few 


Gay  Adventures  167 

coppers,  had  abandoned  all  dignity  of  manhood 
and  lowered  himself  below  the  level  of  a  brute. 
Oliver  felt  Katherine's  hand  clasping  his  arm 
tightly.     He  felt  a  shudder  run  through  his  lady. 

"  Let  us  go  1 "  he  said.     "  This  is  too  low." 

"  No,  no  ;  wait  for  the  Fat  Lady." 

Three  or  four  men  pressed  closely  round 
Katherine.  They  were  looking  at  her  with  curious, 
shifty  eyes.     Oliver  glared  round  upon  them. 

"  Stand  back  a  bit !  "  he  said.  "  There's  no  need 
to  push  !  " 

"  All  right,  guv'nor  !  "  said  one  of  the  men.  He 
winked  at  his  companions,  and  presently  all  of 
them  left  the  tent. 

Then  the  Fat  Lady  appeared  from  behind  the 
curtain,  and  instantly  there  was  a  lot  of  giggling 
among  the  young  women,  and  the  boys  whispered 
and  chuckled  and  gurgled  with  horrible  mirth. 

The  Fat  Lady  was  enormous.  She  wore  evening 
dress  and  a  short  skirt,  and  was  an  amazing  and 
awful  figure.  Yet  she  had  a  pleasant,  amiable 
face,  and  she  looked  round  upon  the  people  in 
the  tent  with  serious  eyes,  in  which  there  was  a 
melancholy  smile. 

"  Poor  creature ! "  said  Katherine,  in  a  low 
voice. 

The  woman  heard,  and  came  up  to  her,  holding 
out  her  banc'. 

"  Thank  you  for  that !  "  she  said.  "  Most 
people   laugh,   and   do   not   pity    me.      Will   you 


1 68     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

shake  hands  with  me  ?  I  will  not  hurt  you,  pretty 
one." 

She  held  out  her  hand.  But  Katherine  shrank 
back. 

"1 — I  would  rather  not"  she  said.  "Forgive 
me. 

The  Fat  Woman  sighed,  and  then  a  rough  man 
took  her  hand  and  burst  out  laughing,  as  if  it  were 
a  great  joke. 

Katherine  slipped  out  of  the  tent,  and  Oliver 
followed  her. 

"  How  awful !  "  she  said.     "  Poor  wretch  !  " 

She  had  gone  rather  white,  and  did  not  object 
now  when  Oliver  suggested  the  homeward 
journey. 

But  suddenly  she  put  her  hand  to  her  throat  and 
said,  "  Good  heavens !  " 

"  What's  the  matter  ?  " 

"  My  diamond  brooch  !     It  has  gone." 

Not  only  her  diamond  brooch  had  gone,  but 
when  she  put  her  hand  into  her  muff,  which  was 
suspended  from  her  neck  by  a  little  gold  chain, 
she  found  that  her  purse  had  gone  also. 

Evidently  the  four  men  who  had  pressed  against 
her  in  the  tent  had  done  a  successful  night's  work. 

Katherine  was  distressed. 

"  Rudolf  gave  me  that  brooch.  It  cost  a  lot  of 
money,  and  I  shall  have  to  tell  him." 

"  Good  God  !  "  said  Oliver.  "  Let  us  go  to  the 
police." 


Gay  Adventures  169 

The  police  were  polite,  but  rather  satirical. 

"Very  sorry,  ma'am,"  said  the  Inspector,  "but 
Barnet  Fair  isn't  the  place  to  wear  diamond 
brooches.  There  are  very  nimble  gentlemen  round 
the  booths." 

They  went  round  the  fair  with  him,  looking  this 
way  and  that  for  the  thieves.  But  obviously  they 
had  departed  with  the  plunder. 

Then  Oliver  remembered  that  he  had  spent  all 
his  money  except  a  few  coppers. 

"How  on  earth  shall  we  get  back?  We  have 
not  enough  between  us  to  buy  our  railway 
tickets." 

They  stared  at  each  other  in  real  dismay. 

Then  Katherine  laughed. 

"  We  must  make  the  best  of  a  bad  bargain.  Get 
a  cab,  Roly." 

It  was  a  long  drive  back,  and  a  cold  one. 
Katherine  kept  rather  close  to  Oliver,  with  her 
hand  tucked  through  his  arm  again. 

"  All  the  same,  it  was  fun,"  she  said. 

"  I  am  sorry  I  took  you,"  said  Oliver,  who  was 
still  depressed  and  anxious  about  the  loss  of  the 
brooch  and  purse. 

He  was  wondering  what  Rudolf  Goldstein  would 
say  when  he  heard  of  the  adventure. 

"  The  place  was  too  low  for  a  lady  of  your 
position.     I  was  indiscreet !  " 

"  I  love  being  indiscreet !  "  said  Katherine.  "  Be- 
sides, I  am  not  a  child." 


170     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

She  indulged  in  a  little  philosophy. 

"  It  is  good  to  see  the  seamy  side  of  life  now 
and  then.  It  is  good  to  see  even  the  coarse  side 
and  the  vile  things." 

"  Why  ?  "  said  Oliver, 

"  It  makes  one  think.  It  makes  one  realise  the 
tremendous  contrasts.  Look  at  me,  with  every- 
thing that  life  can  give.  I  live  in  luxury  and 
idleness.  For  the  sake  of  a  little  excitement  I  buy 
a  new  frock,  which  I  shall  wear  just  once  or  twice. 
Is  there  anything  which  money  can  buy  that  I 
could  not  have  ?  " 

"  A  few  things,"  said  Oliver.  "  A  Dreadnought, 
for  example." 

"  Nothing  that  I  want.  Rudolf  says  I  am 
extravagant,  yet  it  pleases  him.  I  have  nothing 
to  do  but  spend  money  and  search  about  for  new 
luxuries  and  new  toys.  Yet  those  people  of 
Barnet  Fair  could  live  for  a  year  on  what  I  spend 
in  a  day.  That  is  awful  to  think  of,  isn't  it  ?  It 
ought  to  make  me  feel  pretty  wicked ;  don't  you 
think  so?" 

"  No  !  "  said  Oliver.  "  Those  people  are  happy 
enough.     They're  all  right." 

"  Did  you  see  the  pinched  faces  and  the  sunken 
eyes  of  those  men  and  women  ?  They  looked 
half-starved.  I  think  they  do  not  have  enough  to 
eat.  No  wonder  they  are  brutal,  and  take  their 
pleasures  coarsely.  No  wonder  they  are  thieves. 
If  I  lived  that  life   I   should  be  a  thief,  and  an 


Gay  Adventures  171 


anarchist,  and  everything  that  is  violent  and 
desperate." 

"  You  would  make  a  charming  little  anarchist," 
said  Oliver. 

"  It  is  so  easy  to  be  good  and  clean  and  nice 
when  one  is  rich.  I  am  not  angry  even  with  those 
men  who  took  my  brooch.  I  dare  say  it  will  be  of 
more  good  to  them  than  it  was  to  me.  In  a  day 
or  two  Rudolf  will  buy  me  another  one." 

She  sighed,  and  said,  "  How  I  pity  all  the 
children  of  poverty  !  How  I  despise  myself  for 
being  rich  !  " 

"  I  am  one  of  the  children  of  poverty,"  said 
Oliver. 

He  hesitated,  and  then  said,  "  Katberine,  do  you 
know  that  I  am  very  poor?  Do  you  know  that 
I  can  see  the  day  when  I  shall  not  have  enough 
to  eat  ?  " 

He  put  his  hand  in  his  pocket,  and  pulled 
out  eight  pennies,  and  jingled  them  in  his  open 
hand. 

"  That  is  all  the  money  I  have  in  the  world,  and 
I  am  up  to  the  ears  in  debt." 

Lady  Goldstein  was  startled. 

"  Are  you  joking  ?  " 

"  I  was  never  more  serious.  I  am  *  broke '  to 
the  world." 

He  laughed,  but  it  had  not  a  mirthful  sound. 

"  I  am  beginning  to  be  hunted.  The  tradesmen 
are  after  me.      I  have  to  dodge  them  in  the  street 


172     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

Presently  I  shall  not  be  able  to  dodge  them  any 
more." 

"  My  poor  boy  !  "  said  Katherine  Goldstein — as 
if  she  were  a  very  elderly  person — "  I  did  not  know 
it  was  like  that." 

She  stared  at  him  with  wondering  eyes. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  ?  " 

"  The  Lord  knows." 

He  hesitated  again. 

"Perhaps  if  somebody  would  lend  me  fifty 
pounds  or  so,  I  might  carry  over  the  bad  time, 
and  get  a  run  of  luck  by  writing.  That  is  my 
only  chance." 

"  Do  you  know  anybody  who  would  lend  it  to 
you  ?  " 

"  Not  a  soul.  Most  of  my  friends  are  almost  as 
impecunious  as  I  am." 

Katherine  was  silent.  She  stared  out  of  the 
window  of  the  four-wheeled  cab,  and  Oliver 
watched  how,  at  every  lamp-post  they  passed, 
the  light  put  a  glamour  upon  her  face,  and  then 
left  it  vague  and  pale  in  the  darkness. 

She  was  very  serious  now.  He  wondered 
whether  the  loss  of  the  brooch  was  still  worrying 
her  or  whether  she  was  thinking  over  his  confession 
of  poverty.  He  had  a  kind  of  horrible  hope  that 
his  appeal  for  help  would  be  heard  by  this  girl, 
who  had  only  to  ask  for  money  to  get  her  purse 
filled.  But  as  the  cab  jogged  on  he  forgot  his 
want  of  money,  and  thought  only  of  the  joy  of 


Gay  Adventures  173 

driving  like  this  in  the  darkness  with  a  woman 
whose  face,  as  he  looked  sideways  upon  it,  had 
a  haunting  and  mystical  beauty  in  the  passing 
gleams  of  light  from  the  gas-lamps.  He  wished 
that  this  night  ride  might  never  end,  and  that 
always  he  might  go  travelling  along  an  inter- 
minable road,  in  the  gloom,  with  Katherine  by  his 
side,  speaking  in  her  low  voice,  speaking  wistful 
things,  revealing  the  thoughts  that  lay  hidden  in 
her  heart,  taking  him  into  her  confidence  because 
they  were  alone  together,  and  the  solemnity  of 
night  was  about  them,  and  the  busy  traffic  of  the 
world  was  close  to  them,  yet  not  troublesome. 
Her  hand  was  upon  his  coat-sleeve  ;  he  could  feel 
the  rhythm  of  her  quiet  breathing ;  the  fragrance 
of  her  hair  was  like  the  perfume  of  flowers. 

There  was  no  other  woman  within  the  circle 
of  his  life  who  stirred  in  him  an  emotion  which 
made  him  a  little  afraid,  distrustful  of  his  own 
character,  and  conscious  of  his  own  failings.  He 
would  like  to  be  more  her  equal  in  simplicity  and 
sincerity,  more  faithful  to  the  ideal  which  he  had 
adopted  in  her  presence.  Outwardly  he  was  a 
handsome  fellow  (he  knew  that),  but  looking  into 
his  heart  he  saw  a  good  deal  that  was  rotten 
and  false  and  weak.  If  only  he  had  a  girl  like 
this  to  take  him  by  the  hand  and  go  with  him 
along  the  road  of  life !  He  would  be  a  nobler 
man.  He  would  walk  straight  with  her.  He 
thought  of  that  stiff  young  German  husband  of 


174     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

hers,  a  good  fellow  perhaps,  but  utterly  unsuited 
to  a  girl  of  her  mercurial  temperament,  of  her 
bright  imagination  and  restless,  active  brain.  Such 
a  man  would  never  understand  her.  This  marriage 
was  one  of  two  unmated  souls.  What  cruelty 
there  was  in  life !  What  blind  and  senseless 
blunderings  of  fate  !  A  flood  of  pity  possessed 
him  for  this  wife  of  Rudolf  Goldstein,  who  found 
no  happiness  in  her  wealth. 

"  Oliver,  would  you  allow  me  to  lend  you  a  little 
money  ? " 

Katherine  Goldstein's  face  was  in  shadow  now, 
and  her  voice  was  timid. 

"  No,  no.     I  could  not  dream  of  that !  " 

He  spoke  passionately,  as  though  her  words 
had  hurt  him. 

"  It  would  humiliate  me  to  the  dust." 

"  I  do  not  see  why.  I  know  what  the  desperate 
need  of  money  means.  In  the  old  days  there  were 
times  when  the  loan  of  a  few  pounds  from  a  friend 
would  have  been  a  tremendous  boon.  Because  I 
am  a  woman  that  is  no  reason " 

"Yes,  that  is  a  reason.  Such  a  thing  is 
impossible  !  " 

He  repeated  the  word. 

"  Impossible,  Katherine." 

"  Fifty  pounds  would  not  mean  much  to  me. 
I  have  my  own  cheque-book." 

He  raised  his  hand,  and  said,  "  Don't !  "  almost 
as  though  she  had  threatened  to  strike  him. 


Gay  Adventures  175 

Yet  those  words  "  Fifty  pounds  "  made  his  heart 
beat  and  set  his  pulses  jumping.  With  fifty 
pounds  he  could  rise  above  that  quagmire  of  debt 
into  which  he  had  sunk.  It  would  enable  him 
to  breathe  again.  He  would  make  a  fresh  start, 
and  settle  down  to  work  with  a  new  hopefulness. 
He  would  soon  pay  her  back.  He  would  pay 
her  back  a  hundredfold,  and  devote  his  life  and 
his  writings  to  her. 

Katherine  Goldstein  argued  the  matter  out  in 
her  persistent,  logical  way,  and  with  that  touch  of 
humour  which  always  played  about  her  words 
even  when  she  was  most  serious. 

"  I  have  my  own  account.  It  would  be  a  private 
bond  between  you  and  me.  As  all  you  men  are 
proud,  I  would  not  tell  even  Rudolf,  so  you  would 
not  have  to  play  billiards  with  him  and  let  him 
beat  you  every  time.  I  am  not  a  woman  to 
brandish  a  carving-knife  and  say,  '  My  money,  or 
a  pound  of  your  prime  flesh  ! '  You  need  not 
pocket  any  pride,  Oliver.  I  should  be  the  favoured 
one,  for  I  should  have  the  pleasure  of  knowing  that 
I  am  saving  a  genius  from  imminent  ruin.  At 
least,  I  hope  you  will  turn  out  a  genius,  and  do 
credit  to  my  foresight  and  shrewd  instincts.  Fancy, 
ten  years  hence,  when  you  are  rich  and  famous,  I 
shall  say  to  myself — only  to  myself,  '  I  helped  that 
young  man  when  he  was  in  a  tight  corner.'  Isn't 
that  the  best  thing  a  woman  can  do — to  get  a 
man  out  of  a  tight  corner  ? " 


176     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

Oliver  took  her  hand,  and  bent  his  head  low  and 
kissed  it. 

"  Katherine  !  "  he  said,  "you  are  too  good  to  me. 
I  am  unworthy  of  your  beautiful  friendship.  I  am 
a  wretch — a  worm." 

She  took  her  hand  away,  and  put  it  into  her 
muff. 

"  Hush  I  No  sentiment,  Oliver.  No  foolish- 
ness." 

Oliver  could  see  that  she  was  blushing.  Even 
through  the  gloom  inside  the  cab  he  could  see 
that. 

She  began  to  scold  him.  Not  for  kissing  her 
hand,  but  for  being  a  foolish  boy.  and  getting 
into  debt,  and  being  slack  with  his  work,  and  not 
taking  himself  seriously.  As  an  old  woman  who  had 
been  through  Fleet  Street  and  seen  the  ruin  of 
many  young  men  who  preferred  the  gaslight  of 
the  club  to  the  midnight  oil  of  their  rooms,  she 
warned  him  that  he  would  have  to  pull  himself 
together. 

"  That  is  my  advice  to  you,  young  man.  Pull 
yourself  together,  and  let  the  water  run  down  your 
back." 

Oliver  laughed  at  that.  It  was  the  strangest 
thing  to  hear  Katherine  playing  the  wise  old 
woman  to  him,  this  girl,  who  was  not  much  older 
than  himself  in  years,  and  much  younger  in  mind 
and  heart. 

Towards  the  end  of  the  journey  his  voice  dropped 


Gay  Adventures  177 

again,  and  he  told  her  that  she  was  the  good  fairy 
of  his  life.  But  she  put  her  muff  to  his  mouth  and 
said  : 

"Don't  talk  nonsense,  Oliver.  If  there  is  one 
thing  I  hate,  it  is  nonsense ! " 

"  But  I  am  talking  truth.  My  words  come 
straight  from  my  heart.  I  would  pour  out  all 
my  heart  to  you,  if  I  dared — if  I  had  the  pluck." 

"  Hush !  Here  we  are  in  Pont  Street,"  said 
Katherine,  as  though  she  were  rather  relieved  that 
the  time  was  too  short  for  further  outpourings  from 
the  heart  of  Oliver  Lumley. 


12 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

Deliberate   Insults 

Upon  the  morning  following  Barnet  Fair  Oliver 
received  a  note  from  Lady  Goldstein.  But  before 
reading  it  he  handled  a  piece  of  pink  paper  which 
fluttered  out  of  the  envelope.  It  was  an  open 
cheque  for  fifty  pounds,  signed  in  a  fine,  pointed 
handwriting,  "  Katherine  Goldstein."  He  flushed 
crimson  to  the  temples,  and,  for  a  few  minutes,  sat 
at  his  desk  with  his  face  in  his  hands,  staring  at 
that  document  as  though  it  had  put  a  spell  upon 
him.  Then  he  read  the  note.  It  contained  only 
a  few  words. 


"Dear  Oliver, 

"  I  send  you  the  cheque.  Do  not  acknowledge 
it.  If  you  send  me  anything  like  an  lOU  I  shall 
quarrel  with  you.  We  are  friends,  are  we  not  ?  I 
have  confessed  the  loss  of  the  brooch  to  Rudolf. 
He  was  quite  vexed,  but  more  angry  when  he  heard 
of  our  adventure  in  the  fair.  He  thought  that  it  was 
not  respectable.  Foolish,  dull  old  word  !  We  had 
the  greatest  fun. 

"  Yours  very  sincerely, 

"  Katherine  Goldstein." 
178 


Deliberate  Insults  179 

Oliver  paid  some  of  his  debts  out  of  the  fifty 
pounds  from  Lady  Goldstein  and  the  five  pounds 
from  Livvy  and  Doris,  and  he  marvelled  why 
women  were  so  good  to  him — marvelled,  and  was 
glad.  But  it  was  astonishing  what  a  little  way 
this  fifty-five  pounds  went  in  paying  a  clamorous 
landlady,  and  importunate  tradespeople,  and  club- 
friends  whom  he  had  "  touched,"  as  they  would 
say,  for  odd  half-sovereigns  and  odd  half-crowns. 
It  was  impossible  to  satisfy  all  their  demands. 
Indeed,  it  was  rather  disgusting  to  Oliver  to  find 
that  they  spread  among  themselves  the  news  of 
his  new  wealth.  Because  he  paid  one  man,  another 
came  along  with  gentle  reminders.  Even  at  the 
Club  some  of  his  friends  said  : 

"  I  say,  old  man,  I  hear  you  have  got  over  your 
lean  days.     That  half-sov.     Quite  convenient  ?  " 

Of  course  it  was  damnably  inconvenient,  and 
Oliver  had  to  protest  that  they  showed  unseemly 
haste  in  calling  up  their  loans,  and  a  memory  more 
accurate  than  was  allowed  by  true  comradeship. 
Into  the  open  jaws  of  the  most  ravening  wolves  he 
flung  something  to  go  on  with,  from  the  others 
he  escaped,  with  tact.  But  he  was  still  in  a  perilous 
situation,  and  the  money  received  from  good  women 
only  postponed  the  evil  day  when  he  would  have 
to  settle  with  bad  men. 

Another  thing  troubled  him  and  excited  him 
more  than  his  financial  embarrassments,  for  his 
spirit   easily — too   easily — shook    itself    free   from 


i8o     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

those  responsibilities.  In  spite  of  working  more 
regularly  and  industriously,  he  still  had  his  after- 
noons and  some  of  his  evenings  free,  in  which  to 
enjoy  the  charming  society  of  Lady  Goldstein.  Two 
afternoons,  at  least,  in  each  week,  found  him  saying 
"  Good  day "  to  Smithers,  before  clasping  hands 
with  the  lady  whose  manners  seemed  somewhat 
too  frivolous  to  the  late  butler  of  the  Bishop 
of  Barchester. 

That  lady  rebuked  Oliver  more  than  once  for 
wasting  his  time  in  drawing-rooms  (it  was,  after 
all,  only  one  drawing-room),  but  did  not  shut  her 
door  against  him.  On  the  contrary,  with  the 
benevolent  idea  of  inspiring  him,  she  talked  of 
"  plots,"  during  hours  when  he  would  have  been 
more  profitably  employed  in  writing  them.  Nor 
did  she  refuse  his  pleadings  for  pleasant  excursions 
now  and  then  to  such  places  as  Richmond  Park, 
Kew  Gardens,  the  Zoo,  the  Jewish  Quarter  of  the 
East  End,  and  to  Stratford-on-Avon  (where  Sir 
Herbert  Tree  was  on  a  flying  visit),  which  he  put 
forward  as  the  best  method  of  recuperating  a  brain 
overfagged  with  midnight  labour. 

"  If  the  bowstring  is  always  taut  it  snaps,"  said 
Oliver.  "  Surely  you  don't  want  to  see  my 
brain  go  snap?  A  fellow  must  have  a  little 
recreation  ! " 

Lady  Goldstein  agreed,  and  said  that  as  she 
had  to  air  her  new  spring  frocks  they  might  as 
well  go  together. 


Deliberate  Insults  i8i 

One  thing  was  awkward.  On  all  these  jaunts 
Katharine  insisted  on  paying  expenses  for  Oliver 
and  herself;  and  at  first  that  was  extremely  galling 
to  a  young  man  of  pride  and  sensibility.  But  as 
she  explained  to  him  in  her  candid  way,  what  was 
the  good  of  lending  him  a  little  money  to  tide  him 
over  evil  days  if  he  paid  for  her  railway  fares, 
luncheons,  and  other  expenses  out  of  that  loan  ? 
This  argument  was  unanswerable,  so  that  Oliver 
had  to  consent  to  her  plan  or  be  deprived  of  her 
company.  After  his  first  humiliation,  the  arrange- 
ment came  quite  naturally  to  him. 

They  had  many  pleasant  jaunts  together  in  this 
way,  and  many  amusing  and  delightful  adventures, 
during  which  they  learnt  to  know  each  other  more 
intimately.  There  were  one  or  two  mishaps,  as, 
for  instance,  when  they  lost  the  last  train  home 
from  Windsor,  where  they  had  sat  talking  over 
the  fire  at  the  White  Hart  after  rambling  over 
the  old  castle,  and  picnicking  in  the  Forest.  They 
took  a  taxi-cab  home  at  tremendous  expense 
(Lady  Goldstein  paid  again),  and  that  night 
Katherine,  with  a  laugh  that  did  not  ring  quite 
true,  said  that  Oliver  had  better  not  come  in.  She 
could  handle  Rudolf  better  alone.  Oliver  agreed 
with  extreme  readiness,  for  even  now  he  did  not 
care  to  face  a  young  man  who  had  an  unpleasant 
habit  of  looking  straight  down  his  nose,  pulling 
his  fair  moustache,  and  saying  nothing. 

It  was  at  this  time  that  Oliver  began  to  notice 


1 82     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

a  change  in  the  behaviour  to  him  of  Katharine's 
literary  and  artistic  friends.  A  coldness  crept 
over  them.  They  seemed  to  resent  his  appearance 
in  Lady  Goldstein's  drawing-room.  If  they  had 
been  laughing  and  joking  with  Katherine  in  their 
old  way,  the  fire  of  their  conversation  became 
fitful,  smouldered,  and  went  out,  as  soon  as  Oliver 
joined  the  circle. 

It  was  some  time  before  he  realised  this.  He 
first  began  to  wonder  what  frost  was  in  the  air 
when  Francis  Luttrell  "cut"  him  deliberately  in 
the  Strand  one  day,  and  when  on  the  same  after- 
noon Halliday  Wing  ignored  the  hand  which 
Oliver  held  out  to  him  in  Lady  Goldstein's  house. 
Upon  an  evening  in  the  same  week — it  was  the 
night  before  his  adventure  at  Windsor — when 
Gilbert  Verney,  Edmund  Grattan,  Bertram  Ordish, 
and  the  little  musician  Frolenko,  were  discussing 
the  latest  novels  with  their  hostess,  they  left 
Oliver  out  of  the  conversation,  in  a  pointed  way, 
and  made  him  feel  extremely  uncomfortable.  He 
became  angry,  and  was  bold  enough  to  challenge 
the  opinion  of  Edmund  Grattan  upon  the  lit:rary 
art  of  H.  G.  Wells. 

The  whimsical  Irishman,  who  had  been  a  war 
correspondent  in  all  parts  of  the  world,  stared  at 
him  as  though  he  were  some  buzzing  insect  that 
had  become  annoying. 

"  I  am  not  troubling  to  answer  your  opinion, 
Mr.  Lumley,"  he  said  quietly.     "When  you  have 


Deliberate   Insults         183 

been  about  the  world  a  little  more  your  ideas  may 
be  worth  hearing." 

It  was  a  deliberate  insult,  and  emphasised  by 
a  chuckle  from  Bertram  Ordish,  who  had  had  his 
eyes  shut  and  appeared  to  be  sleeping,  and  by 
an  amused  smile  which  curved  the  thin  lips  of 
Halliday  Wing. 

"  I  have  a  perfect  right  to  express  my  opinion," 
said  Oliver  rather  hotly.  "  I  do  not  attempt  to 
monopolise  the  conversation  like  some  people 
here." 

"Meaning  me?"  said  Grattan. 

He  leant  forward  in  his  chair,  and  looked  as 
though  he  might  make  a  pounce  on  Oliver.  There 
was  a  glitter  of  light  in  his  grey  eyes. 

"  Hush  !  "  said  Lady  Goldstein.  "  Little  children 
love  one  another.     I  will  have  no  quarrelling  here.'' 

She  called  to  Oliver  to  look  at  some  engravings 
she  had  bought  in  an  old  print-shop.  She  spread 
them  out  on  the  rosewood  piano,  away  from  the 
men  grouped  round  the  fire.  Oliver  turned  them 
over,  and  Katherine,  leaning  over  the  piano  with 
her  chin  in  the  palm  of  her  hand  and  her  little 
pointed  elbows  on  the  polished  wood,  had  turned 
her  back  upon  her  guests. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?  "  asked  Oliver  in  a  low 
voice.  "What  have  I  done  to  offend  these  fellows? 
They  treat  me  as  if  I  were  a  pariah  dog." 

"  They  were  only  a  little  snappy.  It  is  the  East 
wind.     Don't  pay  any  attention  to  it." 


184     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

She  seemed  more  agitated  than  her  words  sug- 
gested. For  the  rest  of  the  evening  she  was 
rather  silent,  but  addressed  most  of  her  remarks 
to  Oliver,  as  though  to  rebuke  these  friends  who 
had  been  rude  to  him.  Once  when  she  caught 
Bertram  Ordish's  gaze  fixed  upon  her  with  a 
puzzled  and  rather  anxious  look,  she  blushed 
deeply,  and  then  to  hide  her  confusion  turned 
to  Frolenko  and  asked  him  to  play  something 
merry  and  bright. 

"  We  all  seem  horribly  dull  to-night." 

Frolenko  played  some  wild  Bohemian  dances. 
The  room  throbbed  and  quivered  with  fantastic 
melodies.  But  presently  he  fell  into  another 
mood,  and  played  a  wailing  lament  full  of  tears. 
His  fiddle  seemed  to  sob  like  a  woman  with  a 
bleeding  heart. 

In  the  middle  of  it  Katherine  sprang  up  with 
a  sharp  cry  of  "  Don't !  .  .  .  That's  a  horrible  thing 
you  are  playing." 

Frolenko  grimaced  in  his  monkey-like  way. 

"  I  thought  you  wouldn't  like  it.  It  is  the  cry 
of  women  to  whom  love  has  been  denied.  I  made 
it  up  myself  after  spending  a  morning  in  the 
Divorce  Court," 

"  You  morbid  little  wretch  !  "  said  Katherine. 

"  Music  strips  the  soul  naked,"  said  Bertram 
Ordish. 

That  evening  Ordish  and  Oliver  left  the  house 
together.     The  older  man  hailed  a  cab.     "  I  must 


Deliberate  Insults         185 

get  back  to  Battersea,"  he  said.  They  were  the 
first  words  he  had  spoken  to  Oliver  for  the  last 
couple  of  hours.  But  now  he  put  his  hand  on 
Oliver's  shoulder  in  a  friendly  way,  and  said, 
"Lumley,  I  am  old  enough  to  be  your  father. 
Will  you  let  me  give  you  a  word  of  advice  ?  " 

"  I  will  listen,"  said  Oliver,  rather  haughtily. 

"It  is  not  good  for  a  young  man  to  go  about 
too  much  with  a  married  woman.  It  leads  to 
trouble.  The  husbands  don't  like  it.  Funny,  but 
true." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ? " 

Oliver  was  very  angry.  He  jerked  out  the 
sentence  like  a  revolver  shot. 

Ordish  still  had  his  hand  on  Oliver's  shoulder. 
He  pressed  it  almost  affectionately. 

"  Katherine  is  a  dear,  sweet  girl,  but  rather  self- 
willed  and  indiscreet.  We  must  take  care  of  her, 
Lumley.     See  ? " 

The  cab  rattled  up,  and  he  jumped  in  with  a 
"  Good  night !  " 

Oliver  stood  on  the  pavement.  He  stood  there 
for  a  minute  or  two,  staring  at  the  ground. 

"  Confounded  impudence  !  "  he  said. 


CHAPTER   XXIV 
'The  End  of  an   Idyll 

Upon  the  morning  after  the  expedition  to  Windsor 
when  they  had  driven  back  to  town  very  late, 
Oliver  lay  in  bed  thinking  over  the  incidents  of 
that  day  with  Katherine. 

It  had  been  the  most  beautiful  day  in  his  life. 
They  had  played  games  of  make-believe  together, 
in  the  Castle  and  in  the  Park.  He  had  pretended 
that  Katherine  was  a  queen  and  that  he  was  her 
faithful  knight.  In  the  Castle  grounds  the  spring 
flowers  were  blowing.  There  were  hyacinths  and 
jonquils  in  the  long  grass  of  the  moat.  He  said 
that  they  were  flower-fairies,  who  had  come  to 
dance  upon  the  greensward  in  her  honour.  A 
soldiers'  band  was  playing  outside  the  gateway, 
and  he  said  that  this  was  the  guard  of  honour  for 
Queen  Katherine.  Together  they  wandered  under 
the  grey  old  walls  and  passed  beneath  Norman 
archways  and  strolled  about  the  quadrangles  and 
went  into  the  dim  aisles  of  Henry  VI I. 's  chapel, 
and  they  told  each  other  scraps  of  history,  and  con- 
jured up  old  ghosts,  and  fell  into  a  romantic  mood. 

Then    after   midday   they  went   into  the   town 
and  bought  some  sandwiches,  and  passing  down 
i86 


The  End  of  an  Idyll      187 

the  Long  Walk  struck  straight  into  the  heart  of 
the  Great  Park,  among  the  grand  old  oaks,  where 
the  quiet  deer  flung  back  their  antlers  and  stared 
at  them  with  mild,  curious  eyes.  There  was  the 
sound  of  a  distant  motor-horn,  and  Katherine  said 
it  was  old  Heme  the  hunter  winding  his  horn  in 
far-off  glades. 

All  the  trees  and  twigs  of  Windsor  Forest  were 
jewelled  with  the  first  buds  of  spring,  and  there 
was  wine  in  the  air,  and  sunlight  touched  each 
tree-trunk  and  gnarled  old  branch  with  a  shaft  of 
gold,  and  glinted  upon  the  dead  bracken  of  last 
year's  autumn  and  upon  the  green  fronds  of  the 
new  shoots. 

They  were  quite  alone  in  the  Forest.  Not  a 
soul  passed  them.  Oliver  spread  out  his  overcoat 
under  one  of  the  biggest  oaks,  and  Katherine  sat 
upon  it  with  her  back  to  the  tree,  and  they  had 
a  merry  luncheon  with  the  sanduiches.  After- 
wards Oliver  wandered  off  to  find  a  brook  for 
drinking  water.  He  failed  in  the  quest,  and  when 
he  came  back  Katherine  was  fast  asleep,  with  her 
head  leaning  sideways  against  the  trunk. 

She  had  taken  off  her  hat  and  her  fair  hair  was 
touched  with  the  golden  light  of  the  afternoon 
sun.  She  was  smiling  in  her  sleep,  and  Oliver 
sitting  down  in  front  of  her  had  a  new  revelation 
of  her  beauty.  She  seemed  to  him  like  some 
wood-nymph  who  had  strayed  out  of  fairy-land 
into  this  old  forest. 


1 88     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

It  was  getting  chilly  now,  and  very  softly  he 
took  off  his  Norfolk  jacket  and  put  it  over  her, 
hardly  breathing,  lest  he  should  wake  her.  For  an 
hour  he  sat  watching  her,  and  strange  thoughts 
came  into  his  head,  and  curious  little  dreams,  in 
which  he  seemed  to  be  wandering  hand-in-hand 
with  Katherine  through  endless  woods.  Presently 
as  he  sat  there  in  his  shirt-sleeves  he  sneezed 
irresistibly  and  loudly.  Katherine  awakened  with 
a  start,  and  when  she  saw  him  there  without  his 
coat,  and  realised  that  she  had  been  sleeping  and 
that  he  had  covered  her  with  his  own  jacket,  she 
started  up,  blushing,  and  rather  angry  with  herself 
and  him. 

"  You  will  catch  your  death  of  cold  !  What  an 
utterly  absurd  thing  to  do  !  How  long  have  I 
been  dozing?" 

She  could  hardly  believe  that  she  had  been 
asleep  an  hour,  and  she  protested  that  he  had  not 
played  the  game.  He  ought  to  have  wakened 
her.  So  they  quarrelled,  but  made  it  up  again, 
and  walking  back  to  Windsor  had  dinner  at  the 
White  Hart,  and  then,  as  I  have  said,  talked  so 
long  that  they  missed  the  last  train  back  to  town. 

Oliver  did  not  regret  that  until  the  next  morn- 
ing when,  as  he  lay  in  bed,  the  maid-servant 
brought  a  letter  on  the  tray  with  his  early  cup  of 
tea.  It  was  addressed  in  a  handwriting  strange 
to  Oliver,  a  bold,  pointed  script,  with  a  tremendous 
flourish  to  the  tail  of  "  Lumley." 


The   End  of  an  Idyll      189 

"  Good  Lord,  another  bill !  " 

But  when  he  broke  the  seal  and  read  the  letter, 
he  went  quite  pale.  It  contained  but  a  line  or 
two. 

"Sir  Rudolf  Goldstein  requests  Mr.  Oliver  Lum- 
ley  to  discontinue  his  visits  to  31,  Pont  Street.  The 
servants  have  been  given  orders  in  accordance  with 
this  request." 

That  was  all,  and  it  was  enough  to  send  the 
world  crashing  under  the  feet  of  the  young  man 
to  whom  that  house  in  Pont  Street  had  been  a 
little  heaven. 

"  The  servants  have  been  given  orders."  That 
phrase  stung  him.  It  was  deliberately  insulting. 
It  was  an  outrage. 

Oliver  rose  and  dressed  himself.  He  was  trem- 
bling with  nervousness,  and  as  the  meaning  of  the 
letter  burnt  itself  into  his  brain  he  was  tortured. 
The  house  was  closed  to  him.  Never  again  would 
he  enjoy  those  hours  which  for  nearly  a  year  now 
had  been  the  best  and  happiest  in  his  life.  A 
jealous  husband  was  playing  the  tyrant.  Goldstein's 
German  traditions  had  mastered  him,  and  he  in- 
tended to  prevent  his  wife  from  enjoying  a  friend- 
ship with  a  man  who  understood  her  tempera- 
ment and  had  satisfied  some  of  her  desires — for  a 
little  liberty,  for  harmless  adventures,  for  innocent 
mirth. 

As  Oliver  thought  over   the   matter   a   furious 


iQO     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

anger  stirred  in  him.  He  could  see  it  all  now. 
Those  friends  of  Katherine,  the  priggish  Luttrell, 
Halliday  Wing  the  poseur,  gruff  old  Bertram 
Ordish,  the  wild  Irishman  Grattan,  the  whole 
crowd  who  had  frequented  Katherine's  drawing- 
room,  had  poisoned  Goldstein's  mind  against  him. 
They  were  jealous  of  him.  .  .  .  But  he  would  not 
be  shut  out  like  this.  He  would  not  surrender 
his  friendship  because  of  a  jealous  German  and  a 
pack  of  scandal-mongering  rivals.  He  would  go 
to  her  through  fire  and  blood. 

All  his  youthfulness  throbbed  at  his  pulse,  and 
put  fire  into  his  heart. 

"  Good  God  !  My  love  for  Katherine  is  the  vital 
spark  in  me.     Without  it  I  go  out." 

He  had  never  used  that  word  "  love  "  before  in 
relation  to  Katherine  Goldstein.  But  now  it  took 
possession  of  him.  It  prompted  him  to  do  wild 
things.  It  filled  him  with  self-pity,  with  a  strange 
passion,  with  a  hatred  of  Katherine's  German 
husband,  who  was  spoiling  her  life  and  breaking 
her  spirit. 

He  paced  up  and  down  the  room  breathing  out 
her  name,  like  the  young  Dante  to  his  Beatrice. 
"  Katherine  !  my  pretty  Katherine." 

But  that  did  not  alter  the  grim  facts.  The 
house  in  Pont  Street  was  closed  against  him.  The 
servants  had  been  given  orders,  and  he  dared  not 
go  there.  He  wrote  a  letter  to  Katherine,  enclosing 
her  husband's  note. 


The  End  of  an  Idyll     191 

*'  Do  you  approve  of  his  cruelty  ?  I  cannot  be- 
lieve that.  I  have  faith  in  your  friendship.  I  am 
conscious  of  having  done  nothing,  of  having  said 
nothing  that  justifies  your  husband  in  dealing  me 
this  blow.  I  acknowledge  only  that  to  you  I  owe 
the  best  gift  a  man  may  have,  the  charity  and  gracious 
sympathy  of  a  good  woman.  Please  send  me  one 
line  explaining  this  mystery,  which  bewilders  me." 
More  than  a  line  came  by  the  next  morning's  post. 
"My  poor  Boy, 

"  We  are  both  in  trouble.  Rudolf  is  unreason- 
able, absurd,  and  terribly  German.  I  did  not  know 
till  now  how  very  German  he  may  be  at  times.  It 
seems  that  we  have  been  together  too  often  and 
too  long.  He  objects  to  our  little  adventures  and 
excursions.  Nothing  that  I  say  will  make  him 
alter  his  opinion  that  what  I  call  right  is  wrong. 
Of  course  we  have  quarrelled,  and  I  hate  quarrelling. 
I  am  very  angry  with  him  for  forbidding  any  more 
visits  from  you.  I  cannot  pardon  that,  and  I  will 
not  obey  his  command — he  used  the  word  command 
— to  break  off  my  friendship  with  you.  I  do  not 
find  it  in  my  nature  to  obey,  at  any  time,  and  I  permit 
myself  the  liberty  of  choosing  my  own  friends  and 
keeping  them.  It  is  Rudolf's  house,  and  therefore 
I  cannot  invite  you  here  again,  until  he  has  asked 
my  forgiveness,  but  there  are  many  places  in  London 
where  two  friends  may  chat.  I  propose  going  to 
the  National  Gallery  to-morrow  afternoon,  to  study 
the  pictures  in  the  Venetian  room. 
"  Always  yours  sincerely, 

"  Katherine  Goldstein." 


192     Oliver's  Kind   Women 

To  the  Venetian  room  of  the  National  Gallery 
went  Oliver  Lumley  next  day,  and  he  found 
Katherine  Goldstein,  in  a  very  charming  cos- 
tume, gazing  at  a  picture  of  the  Madonna,  by 
Bellini. 

"  Katherine ! "  he  said,  with  tenderness  in  his 
voice. 

She  gave  the  tips  of  her  fingers  to  him. 

"  Oh,  how  do  you  do  ?  .  .  .  That  is  a  wonderful 
picture,  isn't  it?     The  colouring  is  very  fine." 

He  was  taken  aback  by  her  politeness.  He  had 
expected  a  different  greeting,  something  more  in 
harmony  with  his  own  mood,  which  was  vibrant 
and  romantic. 

"Don't  bother  about  the  pictures.  Let  us 
talk." 

"  But  I  have  come  here  for  the  pictures !  " 

She  wandered  round  the  gallery,  seeming  to  take 
a  deep  interest  in  the  works  of  those  Venetian 
masters,  to  whom  she  gave  tributes  of  praise. 

Oliver  followed  her,  chilled  and  gloomy.  In 
this  great  crisis  of  their  lives  it  was  strange  for 
Katherine  to  be  playing  the  art  critic. 

"  Katherine,  what  are  we  to  do  ?  " 

"Do?  "     She  did  not  notice  his  burning  eyes. 

"  I  must  see  you — often.  I  cannot  let  our — our 
friendship  be  smashed  up." 

A  smile  flickered  about  her  lips, 

"  There  is  no  reason  for  anything  so  dreadful. 
You   are   one   of  my   friends.      As   long   as   you 


The  End  of  an  Idyll      193 

behave  nicely,  our  friendship  stands  where  it 
stood." 

She  was  cool  and  self-possessed.  She  did  not 
blush  nor  show  any  signs  of  emotion.  Oliver 
was  surprised  and  disappointed.  Again  he  felt 
chilled. 

"  If  1  cannot  come  to  your  house  I  am  an 
exile  and  an  outcast.  I  cannot  understand  your 
husband's  action,  and  he  does  not  deign  to  give  me 
an  explanation.     What  is  the  meaning  of  it  ?" 

"  My  dear  child,  husbands  are  still  in  the  position 
of  being  able  to  do  unreasonable  things  without 
explanation.  When  you  are  a  husband,  you  will 
claim  the  same  privilege." 

Oliver's  answer  came  from  the  depths  of  gloom. 

"  I  shall  never  be  a  husband." 

Katherine  was  amused  with  that,  and  reminded 
him  of  a  certain  Benedick. 

They  had  tea  together  in  a  shop  near  Trafalgar 
Square,  and  Katherine  talked  of  pictures,  of  Oliver's 
latest  magazine  story  (she  did  not  like  it),  and  of 
the  people  at  the  table  near  them. 

Afterwards  she  said,  "  Please  get  me  a  cab," 
and  then,  before  driving  away,  she  looked  up  at  his 
woebegone  face  and  seemed  to  be  sorry  to  see  him 
so  miserable. 

"  Silly  boy !  Don't  take  things  too  seriously. 
Where's  your  sense  of  humour  ?  " 

"  The  fun  has  gone  out  of  things." 

"Oh  no!  It  is  all  very  amusing.  Rudolf  has 
13 


194-     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

made  me  angry,  but  he  makes  me  laugh  too.     He 
cannot  help  his  German  ancestors  ! " 

When  she  had  driven  away,  leaving  Oliver  on  a 
refuge  in  the  middle  of  Trafalgar  Square,  he  said 
rude  and  unkind  things  about  Rudolf  Goldstein's 
ancestors. 


CHAPTER   XXV 

In  the  Enemy's  Camp 

During  the  next  four  weeks  Oliver  had  the 
felicity  of  seeing  Lady  Goldstein  eight  times.  He 
grumbled  miserably,  considering  this  to  be  short 
commons  for  a  man  who  was  starving  for  love. 
(He  used  that  word  "  love  "  now  habitually  in  his 
self-communings,  and  it  gave  him  a  sense  of 
romantic  tragedy.)  Nevertheless  he  made  the 
most  of  those  meetings,  which  had  the  piquancy  of 
stolen  fruit. 

Generally  it  was  Katherine  who  arranged  them. 
From  her  friends  she  found  it  easy  to  get  theatre 
tickets.  She  had  but  to  ring  up  Francis  Luttrell, 
Edmund  Grattan,  or  Gilbert  Verney,  and  mention 
her  wish  to  see  any  piece  at  any  theatre.  As 
journalists  and  dramatic  critics,  they  seemed  to 
command  the  front  rows  of  the  stalls. 

So  it  was  that  in  four  weeks  Oliver  saw  six  bad 
plays.  He  enjoyed  them  vastly,  because  it  was 
delightful  to  sit  in  his  evening  clothes  (which  were 
getting  a  little  shabby  now)  next  to  the  most 
elegant  and  most  beautiful  woman  in  the  theatre, 
who  attracted  all  eyes  when  she  came  in  to  take 
her  seat,  and  who  invested  Oliver  in  some  of  her 
own  glamour. 

195 


196     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

It  was  delightful,  but  not  entirely  satisfactory. 
While  the  plays  were  in  progress  he  could  make 
little  jokes  to  her,  and  keep  her  amused,  but  he 
could  not  say  those  private  things  which  he 
yearned  to  say.  Nor  between  the  acts,  when  the 
lights  went  up,  could  he  pour  out  his  heart  to  her. 
He  needed  more  elbow-room  and  less  publicity. 
After  the  theatre  he  had  to  see  her  straight  into 
her  cab,  or  into  her  own  car,  because  she  would  not 
listen  to  his  invitations  to  supper. 

*'  Lazy  Oliver  !  You  must  go  back  to  work.  I 
am  sure  you  are  not  getting  on  with  your  writing. 
Remember  your  promise." 

Never  once  did  she  remind  him  of  the  fifty 
pounds  she  had  lent  him,  and  there  were  times 
when  he  quite  forgot  that  loan.  Love  is  not  to  be 
alloyed  with  dross. 

Upon  each  night  at  the  theatre  some  of  Lady 
Goldstein's  friends  were  present,  and  greeted  her 
from  boxes,  stalls,  or  balcony.  Francis  Luttrell 
was  there  one  night,  and  when  he  saw  Katherine 
he  came  towards  her  and  his  tired  grey  eyes 
suddenly  lighted  up.  But  then  he  caught  sight 
of  Oliver,  and  instead  of  coming  to  speak  to 
Katherine  he  merely  bow^ed  and  passed  through  a 
swing  door.  By  a  slight  flush  that  crept  into 
Katherine's  cheeks  Oliver  thought  that  she  had 
noticed  this  sudden  change  in  Luttrell's  manner. 

Once  she  put  her  hand  on  his  sleeve  and 
said : 


In  the  Enemy's  Camp     197 

"  Do  you  see  that  fat  lady  staring  at  us  from  the 
box  over  there — the  upper  box  ?  " 

"  Yes.  That  old  harridan  with  the  osprey  feather 
and  the  diamond  dog-collar.  The  old  boy  with 
her  is  staring  now.     Who  are  they  ?  " 

"  The  Ecksteins  of  Hampstead.  To-morrow  the 
Berensteins  and  the  Rosenbaums  will  know  that  I 
was  here  to-night.  It  is  wonderful  how  they 
spread  the  news." 

She  seemed  rather  disconcerted  by  the  presence 
of  her  husband's  relations,  and  while  the  play  was 
going  on  she  glanced  over  at  their  box  several  times. 
Oliver  had  a  mind  to  suggest  to  her  that  they 
should  not  meet  in  such  public  places ;  but,  for 
some  reason,  he  had  not  the  courage  to  hint  at  this. 
Katherine's  candid  eyes  rebuked  any  idea  of  secrecy. 

So  he  developed  his  knowledge  as  a  dramatic 
critic  until  one  evening  he  received  an  invitation 
from   Halliday  Wing.     It  was  curiously  worded  : 

"  My  dear  Lumley, 
"I  desire  to  see  you  on  an  important  and 
private  matter.  I  shall  be  glad  if  you  will  call  at 
my  studio  here  at  nine  o'clock  to-morrow  evening, 
without  fail,  when  you  will  hear  something  to  your 
advantage.  It  does  not,  of  course,  refer  to  that 
small  loan  for  which  I  hold  your  lOU." 

Oliver  was  startled  by  that  letter.  He  wondered 
whether  it  announced  a  piece  of  good  luck  or  con- 
cealed a  threat. 


198     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

He  took  an  omnibus  to  Chelsea  on  the  following 
evening,  and  at  a  few  minutes  after  nine  walked 
down  a  long  dark  passage  in  a  block  of  studios 
until  he  came  to  a  door  over  which  in  black  letters 
on  a  small  pane  of  glass,  illuminated  from  within, 
was  the  name  HalHday  Wing. 

He  tapped  at  the  door,  and  a  voice  called  out 
"  Come !  " 

Oliver  walked  into  a  large  studio,  littered  with 
canvases  and  an  artist's  paraphernalia.  Wing 
himself  was  standing  by  his  easel,  playing  about 
with  a  pencil  on  a  square  of  cardboard.  He 
glanced  over  to  Oliver  and  said,  "  I  am  glad 
you  have  come.  You  will  find  a  chair  and  some 
cigarettes." 

Then  Oliver  saw  that  Francis  Luttrell  was  in 
the  room,  and  Edmund  Grattan,  and  Charles 
Hardy,  and  Bertram  Ordish,  and  Frolenko  the 
fiddler.  They  were  all  smoking,  and  Grattan  had 
a  glass  of  whisky  at  his  elbow.  Hardy  was  the 
only  one  who  spoke  to  Oliver  as  he  entered.  He 
said,  "  Hulloh,  Lumley !  I  haven't  seen  you  for 
some  time." 

"  No." 

Oliver  looked  round  at  the  men,  whom  he  had 
seen  together  fairly  often  in  Lady  Goldstein's 
drawing-room.  They  smoked  silently,  and  the 
general  atmosphere  did  not  seem  too  friendly. 

"Is  this  a  committee  meeting?" 

Oliver  asked  the  question  with  a  nervous  laugh. 


In  the   Enemy's  Camp      199 

He  looked  over  at  Hardy,  but  his  friend  avoided 
his  gaze. 

"  Something  of  the  sort,"  said  Halliday  Wing 
quietly.  He  seemed  to  be  making  studies  of 
Frank  Luttrell's  profile. 

Oliver  took  a  chair  at  a  deal  table,  and  helped 
himself  to  a  cigarette. 

"  Anybody  got  a  light  ?  " 

It  was  Ordish  who  passed  over  a  box  of  matches. 

Hardy  began  to  whistle  a  tune  with  an  air  of 
being  perfectly  at  his  ease. 

Frolenko  said,  "  You  have  not  an  ear  for  music, 
my  friend." 

Then  there  was  silence,  until  Bertram  Ordish 
stretched  out  his  large  legs,  put  his  hands  into 
the  pockets  of  his  Norfolk  jacket,  and  said,  "  Look 
here,  Wing ;  you  have  brought  young  Lumley 
over  to  this  dog-kennel  of  yours.  You  had  better 
get  straight  to  the  point,  hadn't  you  ?  " 

Halliday  Wing  stroked  his  Vandyke  beard  and 
stared  at  Oliver  thoughtfully. 

"  Yes.     It  is  no  use  beating  about  the  bush," 

Oliver  shifted  in  his  seat.  What  was  this  extra- 
ordinary business  ?  Why  was  he  brought  into  the 
presence  of  all  these  men,  like  a  prisoner  at  the 
bar  ?     He  appealed  to  Hardy,  whom  he  knew  best. 

"  Look  here  !  What  the  devil  is  the  meaning  of 
all  this?" 

But  Hardy  was  examining  the  bowl  of  his  pipe, 
and  did  not  answer. 


200     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

HalHday  Wing  was  still  stroking  his  beard. 
Then  he  lit  a  cigarette,  and,  turning  to  Ordish, 
said,  "You  are  the  oldest  among  us.  You  can 
have  the  word." 

Bertram  Ordish,  a  big  man,  loose-limbed,  with 
a  strong,  clean-cut  face  and  dreamy  eyes,  sat  up 
in  his  chair.  He  looked  at  Oliver  with  a  pleasant, 
frank  smile. 

"  Look  here,  Lumley.  All  this  seems  very  mys- 
terious to  you,  and  I  don't  altogether  approve  of 
this  assembly.  However,  that  was  Wing's  idea, 
and  here  we  are." 

"What  for?"  cried  Oliver. 

"  We  are  speaking  within  four  walls,  and  we  are 
all  friends  here.  Nothing  will  go  outside.  There- 
fore you  must  forgive  a  little  plain-speaking.  We 
want  to  talk  about  Lady  Goldstein — our  Katherine." 

Oliver  flushed  hotly. 

"  I  object  to  discussing  Lady  Goldstein  in  any 
way  whatever." 

"  My  dear  lad,"  said  Ordish,  "  be  reasonable.  It 
is  a  question  of" — he  paused  for  a  phrase — "of 
safeguarding  a  lady's  reputation  and  happiness." 

"  Katherine's  reputation  !  This  is  damned  in- 
solence ! " 

Oliver  sprang  up  and  thrust  his  chair  back. 

Edmund  Grattan  went  to  the  door  and  locked  it. 

"  We  do  not  want  any  intruders,"  he  said. 

Ordish  went  on  speaking.  His  grey  eyes  seemed 
to  hold  Oliver's  gaze. 


In  the  Enemy's  Camp     201 

"  Keep  cool,  Lumley.  We  are  making  no 
accusation  against  you.  We  have  too  much  faith 
in  Kitty  for  any  accusation  to  be  necessary." 

"  I  see  I  am  trapped  here,"  said  Oliver.  "  Come 
to  the  point." 

"  I  will.  All  of  us  here — Grattan,  Verney, 
Hardy,  Wing,  Frank  Luttrell  over  there,  Frolenko 
and  myself,  have  known  Katherine  for  a  good  long 
time,  some  of  us  for  several  years,  and  I  think  I 
may  say  that  we  all " — his  eyes  strayed  over  to 
Luttrell,  the  pale  fellow  who  had  been  dressed  as 
Lancelot  at  the  artists'  ball — "  that  we  all  have  a 
very  real  devotion  to  her.  So  you  see  that  when 
we  see  her  doing  indiscreet  things,  rather  danger- 
ous things — dangerous,  I  mean,  to  her  happiness 
and  reputation — we  are  anxious  and  troubled." 

"  What  on  earth  does  all  this  rhodomontade 
mean  ?  "  said  Oliver.  "  Am  I  responsible  for  Lady 
Goldstein's  indiscretions  ?  " 

"In  a  way,"  said  Ordish.  "You  spend  too 
much  time  in  her  company.  You  have  taken  too 
much  advantage  of  her  girlishness,  of  her  good- 
nature, and  of  her  desire  for  a  little  excitement. 
You  have  allowed  yourself  to  forget  that  she  is  a 
married  woman,  and  that  her  husband  has  certain 
claims  which  must  be  respected  by  any  friend  who 
receives  his  hospitality." 

"  Her  husband  !  That  German,  with  as  much 
sensibility  as  a  block  of  wood  ! " 

Oliver  gave  a  scornful  laugh. 


202      Oliver's  Kind  Women 

"  You  convict  yourself,"  said  Ordish  gravely. 
"  You  have  eaten  his  salt,  and  you  have  no  right 
to  insult  him.  I  know  Rudolf  Goldstein  to  be  a 
simple,  good  fellow,  perfectly  devoted  to  his  wife. 
Isn't  that  so,  boys  ?  " 

He  looked  round  to  his  friends. 

"  Rudolf  is  one  of  the  best,"  said  Grattan, 

"  Very  well,"  said  Oliver.     "  What  then  ?  " 

It  was  Frolenko  who  took  up  the  speech. 

"  I  will  tell  you  what  then,"  he  said  excitedly, 
his  little  black  eyes  glaring  at  Oliver.  "  It  is  your 
damned  cheek  to  go  about  always  with  that  lady 
which  we  speak  of  People  talk.  They  say  Lady 
Goldstein  is  too  much  with  one  young  man — one 
boy  who  whisper  in  her  ear,  who  hold  secrets  with 
her,  who  burn  her  with  his  eyes.  People  shake 
their  heads  and  say,  'Poor  Rudolf!'  Lady  Gold- 
stein's husband  go  about  hang-dog.  His  wife 
laugh  at  him,  a  little  mocking.  Yet  when  I  play 
to  her  she  no  longer  laugh.  I  bring  the  tears  out 
of  her  heart.  We,  her  old  friends,  suffer  because 
she  lose  her  gaiety,  her  beautiful  spirit.  That  is 
what  then,  my  friend.  We  say  this  goes  on  no 
more.  We  will  stop  that  young  man  who  play 
the  dash  fool  with  our  dear  lady.  If  he  go  on  we 
take  him  by  the  throat.  We  use  a  horsewhip  to 
him.  I  myself  will  whip  him  with  my  bow-string. 
Now  you  know  what  then  !  " 

Ordish  got  up,  and  taking  Frolenko  by  the 
shoulders  thrust  him  down  into  his  seat. 


In  the  Enemy's  Camp     203 

"  Monkey-man,  you  get  too  excited.  We  have 
no  quarrel  with  Lumley.  He  is  a  good  fellow. 
He  will  listen  to  reason." 

"  I  am  listening  to  lunatics,"  said  Oliver. 

"  I  should  not  speak  like  that,"  said  Grattan. 
"  I  advise  you  to  keep  a  civil  tongue.  We  ask 
only  one  thing  of  you.  If  you  have  any  work, 
stick  to  it  and  do  not  come  hanging  round  a  lady 
who  has  a  good  fellow  for  a  husband,  and  friends 
who  will  protect  her  good  name." 

Frank  Luttrell  spoke  for  the  first  time. 

"  I  think  we  are  not  justified  in  adopting  a 
hostile  attitude  to  Mr.  Lumley.  Katherine  has 
given  him  her  friendship.  He  is  therefore  one  of 
our  friends.  The  only  thing  we  may  ask  him  is  to 
be  a  little  more  careful,  and  to  guard  Katherine 
wisely  from  indiscretions  into  which  she  is  apt  to 
fall  on  account  of  her  high-spirited  nature  and  sense 
of  humour." 

"  I  agree,"  said  Ordish.  "  We  ask  this  as  a 
favour  of  Lumley." 

He  went  over  and  put  his  hand  on  Oliver's 
shoulder. 

"  My  dear  lad,  you  will  help  us,  I  know.  It 
would  be  very  painful  if  there  were  strained 
relations  between  Lady  Goldstein  and  her  husband. 
Things  have  gone  a  little  too  far  already.  Do  you 
understand  ?  " 

Oliver  shook  off  Bertram  Ordish's  big  hand. 

'•  I    understand  nothing,"  he  said,  "  except  that 


204     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

you  are  all  damnably  jealous  of  my  friendship  with 
Lady  Goldstein.  The  character  of  that  friendship 
does  not  depend  upon  the  good  pleasure  of  Fleet 
Street  journalists  and  Chelsea  artists." 

He  took  up  his  hat  and  stick,  and  went  towards 
the  door. 

"  Do  you  keep  me  prisoner  ? "  he  asked,  re- 
membering that  the  door  was  locked.  In  his 
heart  he  felt  that  he  was  playing  a  difficult  part 
with  dignity. 

Frolenko  was  like  a  cat  about  to  make  a  spring. 
His  little  bullet  head  was  poised  on  one  side.  His 
eyes  had  a  reddish  light  in  their  blackness.  Ordish 
leant  over  to  him  and  put  his  hand  on  his  knee. 

Edmund  Grattan  laughed. 

"  It  seems  we  might  have  saved  our  breath  to 
cool  our  porridge," 

To  Oliver  he  said,  "  The  key  turns  in  the  lock." 

Then  he  lit  his  pipe,  and  puffed  out  a  long  cloud 
of  smoke. 

Oliver  unlocked  the  door  and  went  out  of  the 
studio  with  his  head  held  high  and  his  lips  tightened 
to  a  hard  line.  As  he  strode  down  the  King's 
Road  people  turned  to  glance  round  at  that  tall, 
handsome  young  man  who  looked  as  if  he  were 
defiant  of  fate. 


CHAPTER   XXVI 

Sharp  Arrows 

Another  week  passed,  during  which  he  did  not 
see  Katherine  again.  She  answered  his  long  letters 
by  short  notes,  kind,  but  not  glowing.  He  did  not 
tell  her  of  that  scene  in  Halliday  Wing's  studio. 

He  was  in  a  desperate  mood.  As  he  had  said 
to  Katherine,  the  fun  had  gone  out  of  things. 

Then  one  evening,  as  he  was  sitting  in  his 
rooms  scratching  a  criss-cross  pattern  on  his 
writing-block,  attempting  to  start  a  new  story,  but 
starting  always  on  long  journeys  with  Katherine 
through  fields  of  fancy,  there  was  a  tap  at  his  door, 
and  Mrs.  Trant  put  her  head  inside  his  room. 

"  There's  a  lidy  in  the  'all,  Mr.  Oliver.  Shall  I 
let  'er  in  ?  " 

"  A  lady  ?  " 

Oliver  made  a  stride  to  the  door,  and  saw 
Katherine  standing  there  studying  a  large  engraving 
of  "The  Huguenot"  by  Millais. 

She  turned  to  him  as  he  came  out,  and  said, 
"Are  you  busy?  Am  I  interfering  with  your 
work  ?  " 

"  Not  a  bit !    This   is   splendid    of  you.      Mrs, 
Trant,  will  you  make  some  coffee  ?  " 
205 


2o6     Oliver's  Kind   Women 

Mrs.  Trant  said,  "  If  it  is  your  orders,  Mr. 
Oliver  "  ;  but  she  stared  at  Lady  Goldstein  with  a 
grim  look,  as  though  she  were  doubtful  of  the 
character  of  this  lady  in  evening  dress  with  glitter- 
ing jewels  in  her  hair. 

It  was  nine  o'clock,  and  Oliver's  supper-things 
still  lay  on  the  table,  and  his  arm-chair  was  heaped 
up  with  papers.  He  removed  the  papers,  and 
drew  the  chair  up  close  to  the  fire. 

"  How  tremendously  good  of  you  to  come  like 
this  ! " 

His  voice  shook  with  excitement,  and  his  heart 
was  beating  like  a  sledge-hammer. 

Katherine  sat  down,  and  let  her  cloak  slip  from 
her  shoulders.  She  was  in  a  white  evening  gown, 
and  her  arms  were  bare  to  the  elbows.  She 
warmed  her  hands  at  his  fire. 

"  So  this  is  your  den  ?  I  have  often  wanted  to 
see  you  in  it.  I  slipped  away  from  a  reception  in 
Brooke  Street." 

"  I  have  been  craving  to  see  you.  It  is  a  life- 
time since  I  last  met  you." 

"  It  is  a  week,"  said  Katherine. 

She  looked  over  to  him  with  a  whimsical 
smile. 

"  I  ought  not  to  be  here  now.  I  am  risking  the 
severe  displeasure  of  my  lord." 

"  You  take  the  risk  for  my  sake  ?  I  am  very 
grateful." 

"  Not  for  your  sake.     Oh,  dear  no  ! "  said  Lady 


sharp  Arrows  207 

Goldstein  provokingly.  "  I  was  terribly  bored 
with  my  husband's  second,  third,  and  fourth  cousins. 
The}^  have  all  relapsed  into  the  German  language. 
I  could  not  stand  it  any  more.  I  felt  myself 
sinking  into  gibbering  idiocy." 

Mrs.  Trant  brought  in  the  coffee-things.  She 
put  them  on  the  table  with  a  clatter,  and  walked 
out  of  the  room,  clothed  in  austerity.  She 
suspected  scandal,  and  was  jealous  for  the  good 
name  of  her  lodging-house. 

Katherine  sipped  the  coffee  and  smoked  a 
cigarette.  Oliver  watched  her  and  could  find 
very  little  to  say.  His  eyes  were  burning,  and 
there  was  a  dryness  in  his  throat.  But  Katherine 
chatted  quietly  and  as  though  thoroughly  at  home, 
and  afterwards  went  to  his  bookshelves  and  took 
down  one  or  two  volumes  and  reproved  him  for 
his  interest  in  second-rate  novels. 

Oliver  went  to  the  door  and  turned  the  key. 
Perhaps  the  idea  was  suggested  to  him  by 
Grattan's  action  in  the  studio.  At  the  click 
Katherine  looked  round  and  said,  "  Why  do  you 
do  that?" 

"  I  don't  want  Mrs.  Trant  to  bother  us  again." 

She  searched  his  face,  and  seemed  to  read 
something  strange  in  its  expression.  The  book 
in  her  hand  trembled  slightly. 

Oliver  went  over  to  her  and  said,  "  Katherine, 
sit  down  again.     I  want  to  speak  to  you." 

"  It  is  getting  late.     I  must  go  now." 


2o8      Oliver's  Kind  Women 

She  went  over  to  the  chair  and  picked  up  her 
cloak. 

But  Oliver  took  it  from  her  hands, 

"  I  must  talk  to  you.    Please  sit  down.    Please  !  " 

His  voice  was  so  emotional,  his  face  so  grave 
and  pleading,  that  Katherine  was  startled.  She 
sat  in  the  big  arm-chair  and  tried  to  laugh.  But 
there  was  a  scared  look  in  her  eyes. 

"  What  do  you  want  to  tell  me,  Roly  ?  Be 
quick,  for  it  is  time  to  go." 

He  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  table,  leaning  forward 
to  her. 

"  Katherine,  why  is  the  world  so  cruel  to  us 
both  ?  " 

"  Is  that  a  riddle  ?  " 

She  laughed  again,  but  nervously. 

"  Yes.  It  is  the  riddle  of  life.  I  cannot  find 
the  answer  to  it." 

He  slipped  off  the  edge  of  the  table,  and  then 
suddenly  knelt  down  by  her  chair  and  took  her 
hand. 

"  Look  here,  it  is  no  use  beating  about  the 
bush.  I  love  you.  I  am  on  fire  with  love  for 
you." 

She  went  very  white,  and  tried  to  take  her 
hand  away,  but  he  held  it  fast. 

"  Oliver — you  must  not " 

"  I  must.  Katherine,  listen  to  me.  You  and 
I  were  made  for  each  other.  Something  stronger 
than  ourselves  has  brought  us  together — we  cannot 


Sharp  Arrows  209 

get  away  from  it.  What  are  we  to  do?  Are 
you  going  to  submit  to  this  brutal  tyranny  of 
your  husband  ?  " 

"  I  think  you  are  mad." 

Katherine  spoke  the  words  sharply.  She  tore 
her  hand  away  from  his  grasp,  and  tried  to  stand 
up.     But  Oliver  held  her  to  the  chair. 

"  Yes,  I  am  mad  !  I  am  mad  to  think  that 
you  should  suffer  so  much  unhappiness  in  your 
married  life." 

"  This  is  horrible  ! " 

Katherine  spoke  in  a  whisper.  Her  face  was 
deadly  white  now,  and,  pinioned  in  Oliver's  grasp, 
she  threw  her  head  to  right  and  left,  like  a 
trapped  animal  seeking  a  way  of  escape. 

"  Katherine,  I  shall  go  to  the  devil  if  you  do 
not  let  me  love  you.  Your  husband  shall  not 
keep  you  a  prisoner  from  me.  See,  I  dare  to 
kiss  your  lips  !  " 

He  put  his  arm  about  her  neck  and  put  his 
head  down  to  her  face.  But  she  jerked  her  head 
on  one  side  violently,  and  struck  him  with  her 
hand  across  the  face. 

She  was  standing  now,  panting  a  little,  and 
with  a  flushed  face. 

"  I  thought  you  were  a  gentleman." 

"  My  dear  girl,  I  love  you.  Forgive  me  for 
being  rough." 

"  I  believed  I  could  trust  you  !  "  said  Katherine. 

"  You  shall  trust  me,"  said  OHver ;  but  he  was 
14 


2IO     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

frightened  now.      He  did  not  like   that   look  on 
Katherine's  face.     It  was  a  look  of  contempt. 

"  My  husband  was  right  after  all.  You  are  a 
man  to  take  advantage  of  a  woman's  friendship." 

"  Good  God  !     Katherine  !  " 

He  stood  trembling  before  her. 

"  My  husband.  .  .  .  You  call  him  brutal !  He 
has  been  kinder  than  any  one  in  life  to  me," 

"  Rudolf?  "  said  Oliver.  He  was  angered.  "  He 
has  played  the  petty  tyrant.  He  has  crushed 
your  spirit." 

"  Nonsense  !  He  has  spoilt  me  and  pampered 
me. 

"  Why  did  you  jeer  at  him,  then  ?  You  have 
always  scoffed  at  him.  You  cannot  deny  that, 
Katherine." 

It  was  an  attempt  to  justify  himself. 

"  Yes  ;  I  have  laughed  at  him,"  said  Katherine. 
*'  I  have  made  fun  of  his  German  ways.  I  have 
been  unkind  to  him.  .  .  .  Oh,  this  is  my  punish- 
ment.   These  insults.     This  outrage  !  " 

She  cried  a  little,  and  Oliver  sat  upon  his 
window-sill,  bewildered,  abashed,  and  silent. 

"  Why  did  you  lead  me  on,  then  ? "  he  said 
presently,  in  a  hard  voice.  "  Why  have  we  been 
playing  the  fool  together  ?  " 

"  I  took  pity  on  you." 

"  Pity !  Good  Lord,  I  did  not  want  your 
pity!" 

His  face  flushed  with  anger  and  shame. 


sharp  Arrows  211 

'*  I  pitied  you  because  of  your  boyishness  and 
poverty,  and  because  my  friends  treated  you 
slightingly.  .  .  .  They  were  right.  Rudolf  was 
right.     You  have  not  learnt  to  play  the  game." 

Oliver  was  blanched  now.  It  seemed  that  her 
words  were  giving  him  mortal  wounds. 

"  I  thought  you  were  nice-minded.  I  was  angry 
with  my  husband  because  he  disliked  you  and 
warned  me  against  you.  My  generous  husband, 
whom  you  have  dared  to  abuse  ! " 

"  It  is  a  pity  you  did  not  tell  me  before  how 
much  you  loved  your  dear  husband  !  " 

His  sneering  words  brought  a  flame  to  Kathe- 
rine's  face  now.     She  put  on  her  cloak, 

"  Unlock  that  door.  I  will  never  speak  to  you 
again." 

Oliver  was  no  longer  pleading.  He  laughed 
bitterly. 

"  So  women  break  men's  hearts  and  fling  the 
pieces  away !  I  was  a  fool.  I  ought  to  have 
known.  Did  you  not  teach  me  to  love  you? 
By  God,  you  went  out  of  your  way  to  tempt  me ! 
Do  you  forget  all  our  excursions  together  ;  all 
our  adventures  when  you  came  alone  with  me  ? 
I  am  no  boy.  I  am  a  man  with  human  passions 
and  qualities.     How  could  I  resist  your  beauty  ?  " 

Then  his  anger  went  out,  and  he  put  his  hands 
to  his  face  and  hid  his  tears. 

A  little  pity  stole  into  Katherine's  eyes. 

"  I  am  partly  to  blame.     I  have  been  frightfully 


212     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

foolish.  I  ask  you  to  forgive  me  for  that.  I  had 
no  idea  .  .  ." 

She  went  to  the  door  and  unlocked  it. 

"  Anyhow,  we  must  not  see  each  other  again." 

She  went  back  and  put  her  hand  on  his 
shoulder 

"  Oliver,  I  am  sorry." 

He  raised  his  head. 

"  I  am  a  broken  man.     You  ought  to  be  sorry." 

"  We  must  both  be  sorry.  We  have  behaved 
like  children." 

She  gave  a  little  sob,  but  checked  it,  and  said, 
"  Please  show  me  out." 

He  took  her  to  the  door,  and  called  a  cab  for 
her. 

She  did  not  hold  out  her  hand  to  him,  or  say 
good-bye.  Her  eyelashes  were  wet  with  tears. 
As  she  drove  away  he  had  a  last  glimpse  of  her 
white  face. 

He  went  back  to  his  room,  stumbling  like  a 
drunken  man.  For  hours  he  sat  hunched  up 
before  his  fire,  long  after  it  had  burnt  out  and  left 
cold  ashes  in  the  grate. 


CHAPTER   XXVII 

The  Fugitive 

"There  is  a  damned  conspiracy  against  me  ! " 

Oliver,  sitting  in  the  midst  of  ruined  hopes  and 
with  a  bruised  and  bleeding  pride,  made  this  accu- 
sation against  the  world,  and  cried  out  in  self-pity. 

It  seemed  as  if  Katherine's  abandonment  had 
given  the  signal  to  all  the  gods  or  devils  of  fate 
who  had  a  grudge  against  him.  All  the  difficulties 
and  troubles  which  had  been  thrust  on  one  side 
with  reckless  courage  now  fell  upon  him  in  a  heap, 
and  he  was  beaten  to  his  knees. 

Stories  and  articles  which  he  had  sent  out  with 
the  sure  hope  that  they  would  reach  havens  of 
prosperity  came  fluttering  back,  dirty  and  dog's- 
eared,  like  birds  with  broken  wings.  All  the 
editors  in  London  had  conspired  to  beggar  him. 
The  postman's  double  knocks,  which  heralded  the 
return  of  these  unfortunate  children  of  his  brain, 
were  like  the  hammering  of  coffin-nails.  There  were 
times  when  he  would  have  liked  to  muffle  the 
knocker,  so  that  the  noise  of  another  disappointed 
hope  should  not  beat  so  horribly  upon  his  brain. 

The  postman  himself  seemed  in  league  with  the 
devil.  No  longer  did  he  bring  gay  little  letters 
213 


214     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

from  Katherine  Goldstein.  She  was  silent  now. 
She  had  not  answered  his  last  entreaties.  But  the 
postman  was  the  messenger  of  all  his  enemies, 
and  every  envelope  thrust  through  the  letter-box 
contained  a  threat. 

Tradesmen  demanded  settlement  of  their  ac- 
counts "  by  return."  His  tailor  wrote  with  de- 
liberate insolence.  The  secretary  of  the  club 
warned  him  that  his  name  would  be  posted  up 
unless  he  paid  his  subscription.  But  worse  than 
this  was  the  combined  attack  of  those  whom  once 
he  had  believed  to  be  his  friends.  Halliday  Wing, 
Gilbert  Verney,  and  Edmund  Grattan  reminded 
him  that  he  was  in  their  debt  for  various  small 
sums.  "If  you  have  any  sense  of  honour,"  wrote 
Wing,  "you  will  now  redeem  your  lOU." 

That  was  sheer  revenge  for  the  quarrel  in  his 
studio.  Other  demands  for  money  growled  at  him 
from  every  quarter,  as  though  hungry  wolves  were 
yapping  about  his  heels. 

Even  his  family  joined  in  the  hunt.  His  father 
hoped  that  he  might  soon  rely  upon  his  son  for  the 
repayment  of  the  monthly  allowance  which  had 
been  advanced  with  so  much  difficulty,  and  had 
drained  him  perilously. 

"  You  will  realise,  my  dear  Oliver,  that  I  am  still 
struggling  with  that  arithmetical  problem  which  has 
troubled  me  all  my  married  life — the  way  to  make 
both  ends  meet.  The  strain  is  getting  too  much  for 
me  in  my  declining  years." 


The  Fugitive  215 

Horace  wrote  twice. 

**  Dear  old  Boy  (he  said), 

"  Surely  as  a  successful  man  of  letters  you  can 
see  your  way  to  pay  back  those  few  pounds  which  I 
have  lent  you  from  time  to  time.  The  mater  is 
pining  for  a  little  holiday,  and  Galatea  wants  a 
change  of  air  badly.  If  you  could  send  me  a 
cheque  for  ten  pounds  I  would  take  them  away  for 
Easter — to  Bournemouth  or  somewhere." 

Oliver  laughed  with  a  frightful  bitterness  over  a 
phrase  in  that  letter  :  "  As  a  successful  man  of 
letters."     The  irony  of  it  was  deadly. 

But  the  last  blow  which  bludgeoned  him  to  his 
knees  was  a  letter  from  Rudolf  Goldstein.  It 
brought  a  whimper  to  his  lips.  He  knew  that  he 
was  broken  utterly  when  he  read  those  words. 

"  It  has  come  to  my  knowledge  that  my  wife  has 
lent  you  the  sum  of  fifty  pounds.  As,  in  my  opinion, 
it  is  an  impossible  thing  for  a  man  of  your  age  and 
position  to  be  in  debt  to  a  married  lady,  I  take  the 
liberty  of  advising  you  to  return  this  money  imme- 
diately. I  am  old-fashioned  enough  to  believe  that 
a  man  who  borrows  from  any  woman  not  intimately 
related  to  him  runs  a  grave  risk  of  accusations 
against  his  honour.  It  is  right  to  say  that  Lady 
Goldstein  does  not  take  this  view,  and  does  not 
wish  the  money  to  be  returned.  But  I  write  to 
you  as  man  to  man,  and  entirely  in  your  own 
interests," 


2i6     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

This  letter  from  a  man  who  had  closed  his  door 
against  him  filled  Oliver  with  a  sense  of  such 
bitter  humiliation  that  he  was  covered  with  dust 
and  ashes.  At  twenty-four  years  of  age  he  felt 
like  an  old  man  whose  hopes  have  crumbled  about 
him,  and  for  whom  there  is  nothing  to  look  forward 
to  but  death.  He  obtained  a  kind  of  fierce  conso- 
lation by  wallowing  in  self-abasement  and  self- 
reproach.  He  exaggerated  his  follies,  and  piled  up 
mountains  of  shame  upon  his  own  head. 

But  always  he  came  back  to  his  position.  He 
was  trapped,  he  could  not  find  a  way  out.  It 
would  be  as  easy  for  him  to  find  the  Philosopher's 
Stone  as  the  money  to  pay  back  Lady  Goldstein, 
or  those  other  people  from  whom  he  had  borrowed 
small  sums.  There  came  to  him,  in  an  overpower- 
ing craving,  a  desire  to  escape — to  escape  from  the 
tangle  in  which  he  was  coiled,  from  London,  in 
which  he  was  a  miserable  failure,  from  himself 
most  of  all. 

He  became  morbid,  and  believed  that  the  only 
way  of  this  escape  was  through  the  gates  of  Death. 
Suicide  tempted  him  devilishly  and  seductively. 
Newspaper  headlines  thrust  themselves  before  his 
mental  vision,  "Sad  Death  of  a  Well-known 
Writer."  "  Shocking  Discovery  in  Westminster," 
"  Remarkable  Letter  before  Death,"  He  com- 
posed the  text  of  that  letter,  and  filled  it  with 
bitter  irony.  He  thought  out  keen-edged  epigrams 
to  stab  the  breast  of  a  cultured  world.     Sonorous 


The  Fugitive  217 

sentences  breathing  a  spirit  of  sombre  melancholy 
came  into  his  brain,  and  he  murmured  them  to 
himself  with  a  miserable  kind  of  satisfaction.  His 
eyes  became  moist  at  the  picture  of  himself  lying 
stark  and  stiff  upon  the  hearthrug.  He  wept  over 
his  own  dead  body.  He  saw  Mrs.  Trant  come 
into  his  room  in  the  early  morning.  She  crossed 
the  floor,  called  his  name  twice,  bent  down  and 
touched  him,  and  gave  a  piercing  shriek  at  her 
frightful  discovery. 

He  would  leave  one  line  for  Katherine.  "  With- 
out your  love  I  cannot  live  !  "  She  would  be  sorry 
for  him  then.  Perhaps  she  would  weep  for  him. 
She  would  remember  their  adventures,  those  fire- 
side hours,  when  they  had  talked  about  books  and 
plots.  That  would  be  his  revenge  for  her  abandon- 
ment. Her  friends  would  talk  of  him  in  whispers. 
They  would  regret  having  hounded  him  to  his  death. 

And  here  and  there  in  the  world  people  who  had 
read  his  stories  would  remember  his  name,  would 
recall  some  of  his  tales,  and  would  sigh  at  this  end 
to  a  bright  and  promising  career.  Women  like 
Virginia  Garland,  who  had  followed  his  work  with 
sympathy,  would  mourn  this  loss  to  English 
literature. 

Virginia  Garland.  He  had  almost  forgotten  that 
dream-woman.  Her  name  called  to  him.  There 
was  the  sound  of  Spring  in  it.  Outside  the 
windows,  even  in  Westminster,  there  was  the  glint 
of    spring    sunshine,   and    Oliver   stared    at    two 


2i8     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

sparrows  twittering  and  flirting  on  the  railings 
opposite.  It  would  be  a  pity  to  die  in  the  spring, 
when  life  was  throbbing  everywhere.  Down  in  the 
country,  where  Virginia  Garland  lived,  the  flowers 
would  be  spangling  the  grass.  In  her  garden  she 
would  walk  in  beauty  and  fragrance.  It  would  be 
good  to  escape  from  London,  with  all  its  noise  and 
cruelty,  into  the  peace  of  such  a  garden.  Perhaps 
there  he  would  find  healing  for  his  bleeding  heart. 
Peace,  anyhow,  and  perhaps  a  new  birth.  If 
Virginia  Garland  would  give  him  her  sympathy 
— such  sympathy  as  had  breathed  through  her 
letters — he  might  build  himself  up  again — his 
pride  and  his  career. 

During  several  days  the  idea  grew  upon  him. 
He  put  aside  his  suicidal  thoughts  and  yearned  to 
get  away  into  the  country.  He  would  slip  away 
quietly,  without  farewells.  Nobody  would  miss  him. 
Not  Katherine.  Not  even  his  family.  That 
brought  bitterness  again,  and  pity  for  himself. 
Then  one  night  he  made  his  resolution.  He 
would  go  down  to  Worcestershire  with  the  ten- 
pound  note  which  still  remained  out  of  Katherine's 
loan,  the  only  wealth  he  could  collect.  Perhaps  he 
might  get  that  little  cottage  which  Virginia  Garland 
had  pictured  in  one  of  her  letters — the  cottage 
below  her  garden  wall.  He  could  live  cheaply 
there,  and  in  the  country-side  ideas  would  come. 
His  brain  would  be  freshened  and  strengthened. 
He  would  write  a  big  novel,  and  rebuke  his  enemies 


The  Fugitive  219 

with  his  fame.  The  day  would  come  when  they 
would  have  to  give  him  their  admiration. 

Oliver  became  surprisingly  cheerful  for  a  young 
man  who  had  been  so  near  to  the  black  abyss. 
He  wrote  several  letters  to  creditors,  explaining 
that  he  was  called  away  and  would  settle  their 
accounts  at  a  future  date.  One  letter  was  to  his 
landlady.  He  told  her  to  sell  his  few  belongings — 
they  were  worth  a  few  pounds — to  pay  for  his 
board  and  lodging. 

To  his  mother  he  wrote  a  longer  letter,  very 
tender  and  affectionate.  He  was  sorry,  he  said,  for 
all  the  anxiety  he  had  caused  her  since  boyhood, 
and  for  the  poor  way  in  which  he  had  repaid  her 
love.  But  one  day  he  hoped  to  come  with  honours 
and  riches  in  his  hands.  Not  one  member  of  his 
family  would  have  cause  to  blame  him  then.  He 
would  be  generous  to  all  of  them.  He  would  help 
the  old  governor  in  his  poverty,  and  lift  old  Horace 
out  of  the  ruck,  and  give  Galatea  a  good  time  in 
life.  But  the  best  of  gifts  would  be  to  his  mother. 
.  .  .  They  must  not  expect  to  hear  from  him  for 
some  time.  He  was  going  away  into  the  country 
to  write  his  masterpiece. 

Oliver's  old  optimism,  his  rosy  dreams,  shone  in 
every  sentence  of  that  letter. 

To  Katherine  he  wrote  last  of  all. 

"  I   am   going   away.     I  cannot  bear  to  stay  in 
London  now  that  you  have  cast  me  out  of  your 


2  20     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

life.  The  remembrance  of  joyful  hours  when  I  could 
claim  your  friendship  cuts  into  my  heart  like  a  sharp 
knife.  I  cannot  pass  the  National  Gallery,  even, 
without  a  sense  of  weakness  and  misery.  The  very 
advertisements  of  the  theatres,  in  which  you  and 
I  sat  so  merrily,  bring  back  memories  which 
mock  at  me.  So  I  go  in  search  of  forgetfulness, 
to  other  scenes  not  haunted  by  your  spirit.  I 
cannot  lie  and  say  I  do  not  love  you  still.  But  my 
heart  is  like  the  flower  which  peasants  call  Love- 
lies-bleeding. Katherine,  I  say  good-bye,  and  think 
I  kiss  your  hand.  I  hope  you  may  be  as  happy 
always  as  I  am  miserable." 

On  the  night  he  -wrote  that  letter  Oliver  took  the 
tramcar  along  the  Kennington  Road.  He  went 
to  say  good-bye  to  Livvy  O'Brien  and  Doris 
Fortescue.  They  w^ere  the  only  friends  with  whom 
he  would  clasp  hands  before  his  going. 

It  was  very  late  at  night,  and  he  guessed  they 
would  just  have  returned  from  the  theatre. 

But  only  Livvy  was  in  the  rooms. 

"  Doris  is  on  tour,"  she  said.  "  She  has  got  a 
part  in  '  The  Little  White  Mouse.'  I  feel  fearfully 
alone." 

Livvy  wore  a  blue  dressing-jacket,  and  her  hair 
was  uncoiled.  Oliver  had  never  seen  her  looking 
so  pretty,  he  thought,  and  he  was  amused  to  see 
her  blush,  as  shyly  as  a  schoolgirl,  when  he  came  in. 

"  You  must  go  in  twenty  minutes.  We  keep 
the  proprieties  here,  you  know." 


The  Fugitive  221 

She  smiled  in  her  coy,  impudent  way,  and  her 
soft  black  Irish  eyes  sparkled  at  him. 

"  Twenty  minutes !  And  I  have  such  a  lot  to 
say ! " 

"  You  look  pale,"  said  Livvy.  "  Have  you  been 
ill?" 

He  put  down  his  hat  and  gloves,  and  warmed 
his  hands  at  her  fire. 

"  I  think  I  have.  I  have  been  worried  almost  to 
death." 

"  About  money  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  that  and  other  things.  I  have  to  cut 
everything.     I  am  going  away — into  the  country." 

"A  flitting?" 

She  smiled  whimsically  at  that. 

"  Sure,  and  I  am  sorry.  We  shall  miss  you, 
Roly." 

"  You  will  be  the  only  one  to  miss  me,  Livvy. 
I  haven't  another  friend  in  the  world." 

He  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  table  and  heaved  a 
tremendous  sigh. 

"  Melancholy  Jacques !  "  said  Liwy. 

"  Yes,  life  is  a  melancholy  business.  It's  this 
cursed  poverty,  and  the  general  cussedness  of 
things.  How  do  you  manage  to  keep  so  cheerful, 
Livvy  ?     Teach  me  the  secret !  " 

"  Smiling  hurts  less  than  crying.  Don't  you 
know  that  ?  " 

"  Yet  I  expect  you  have  rough  times  sometimes, 
don't  you?" 


22  2     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

«  Pretty  rough." 

She  put  her  arms  across  the  table,  and  played 
with  some  ink-spots  on  the  red  cloth  at  the  tips  of 
her  fingers. 

"  It's  not  so  much  the  present.  It's  the  future 
that  scares  me." 

"  How  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  The  future  of  a  third-rate  actress  is  a  hopeless 
kind  of  thing.  Every  day  makes  me  a  little  older. 
I  get  the  creeps  when  my  birthdays  come  round 
and  tell  me  that  I  am  a  year  older  than  the  one 
before.  We  don't  last  very  long  after  the  first 
grey  hair  and  the  first  sign  of  crowsfeet  about  the 
eyes." 

"  You  needn't  worry,  Livvy.  You  have  got 
neither  of  those  things  yet." 

Livvy  took  a  coil  of  her  hair,  and  held  it  over 
the  sleeve  of  her  blue  bed-jacket. 

"  Look  !     Isn't  that  a  silver  thread  ?  " 

Oliver  bent  over  her  and  lifted  up  her  beautiful 
coil.  With  quick  fingers  he  plucked  out  the  grey 
hair. 

"  It  is  gone  now,  anyhow." 

She  gave  a  little  laughing  cry,  and  said  that  she 
had  pulled  out  six  like  that. 

"  I  am  getting  old.     I  am  twenty-nine." 

"  By  Jove  !     You  look  about  eighteen  ! " 

Oliver  was  astonished.  He  had  never  guessed 
that  she  was  five  years  older  than  himself. 

"  I  have  a  terror  of  getting  old.     The  thought 


The  Fugitive  223 

of  it  makes  me  shiver.  I  lie  awake  at  night 
wondering  what  I  shall  do  when  I  am  withered 
and  ugly.     Funny,  isn't  it  ?  " 

She  laughed  with  a  strange  gaiety  at  her  own 
melancholy  thoughts. 

Then  she  put  her  hand  on  Oliver's  sleeve  and 
said,  "  Can  you  think  what  it  will  feel  like  when  I 
go  to  a  call  for  chorus  girls  and  hear  the  manager 
say,  '  Nothing  for  you,  miss  ;  we  asked  for  young 
girls'?  Have  you  ever  heard  those  words  and  seen 
the  awful  look  in  the  eyes  of  the  poor  creature 
who  is  turned  away  ?  " 

"No,"  said  Oliver.  "But  it  will  never  come  to 
that  with  you,  dear  girl." 

"  Oh,  it  is  bound  to  come.     Unless " 

She  sighed,  with  a  "  Heigh-ho,  poor  little  me." 

"  I  used  to  hope  I  should  get  married.  But 
that  little  dream  is  fading." 

"  Oh,  surely  not !  "  said  Oliver.  "  There  are 
heaps  of  fellows  who  would  be  proud  to  have 
you." 

Livvy  laughed  again. 

"  Oh,  I  have  had  heaps  of  lovers.  But,  alack-a- 
day,  one  by  one  they  go  away,  you  see.  They  flirt 
with  me  on  tour  and  then  forget." 

"  Do  you  let  them  flirt  with  you  ?  "  said  Oliver. 

She  turned  her  head  and  looked  into  his  eyes 
rather  proudly. 

"  I  have  never  fooled  about.  I  have  always 
played  straight.     I'm  Irish,  you  see." 


2  24     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

"  You  are  an  Irish  rose,"  said  Oliver.  "  You  are 
worthy  of  any  man's  love." 

She  put  her  hands  on  his  shoulders  and  looked 
up  quite  frankly  into  his  face. 

"  I  wish  you  loved  me,  Oliver.  Sometimes  1 
half  hoped " 

He  touched  her  hair,  and  let  his  hand  linger  in 
her  tresses. 

"  If  I  were  not  so  poor " 

"  Hush !  Don't  think  I  want  you  to  pretend. 
I  can  read  you  like  a  book,  Roly." 

"  Let  us  wait  a  bit.  One  of  these  days  I  may 
come  back  with  a  little  money — enough  to  make  a 
nest  for  you,  Livvy." 

She  shook  her  head,  and  looked  at  him  with 
teasing  eyes. 

"  What  a  boy  you  are  !  Do  you  think  I  believe 
that  fairy-tale  ?  " 

He  put  his  arms  about  her,  and  kissed  her  on 
the  lips.  At  that  moment  he  believed  he  loved 
her,  as  once  (a  few  weeks  ago)  he  had  loved 
Katherine. 

"  That  was  wicked  of  you  !  "  said  Livvy,  blushing 
deeply.     "  I  have  never  let  any  man  do  that  before," 

She  thrust  him  away,  but  was  not  angry. 

"You  must  go  now.  It  is  much  too  late  for  any 
young  gentleman  to  sit  in  my  rooms." 

Oliver  was  not  in  a  hurry  to  go. 

"  I  should  like  to  stay.  I  should  like  to  stay 
with  you  always.     When  I  leave  you  I  shall  go  out 


The  Fugitive  225 

into  the  cold,  a  very  lonely  man,  Livvy.     But  I  will 
come  back.     One  fine  day  I  will  come  back." 

"  Maybe  you  will  find  me  waiting,"  said  Livvy. 
"  But,  somehow — do  you  know? — I  don't  think  you 
will  come  back.  You  are  going  away  like  the  other 
boys  I  have  known.  .  .  .  Good-bye,  Roly.  Good 
luck  to  you." 

She  held  out  her  hands  to  him,  and  he  took  both 
of  them,  and  pressed  them  together  and  kissed 
them. 

"  Luck  and  I  are  strangers." 

Livvy  went  to  a  drawer  in  a  wooden  cabinet,  and 
rummaged  among  some  handkerchiefs  and  things. 

"  Here  is  a  little  charm.  It  will  bring  you  luck. 
Will  you  wear  it  in  remembrance  of  me  ?  " 

It  was  a  silver  medal — some  religious  token. 

"  It  will  help  keep  the  old  devil  at  bay,"  said 
Livvy. 

"  Most  useful ! "  said  Oliver,  putting  it  in  his 
waistcoat  pocket. 

She  almost  pushed  him  out  of  her  room,  but 
before  closing  the  door  again  she  pulled  his  head 
down  to  her  breast  and  kissed  him  on  the  forehead. 

"Think  of  me  sometimes — and  be  good." 

As  Oliver  went  down  the  stairway  his  heart  was 
quite  melted.  He  did  not  know  that  he  cared  for 
Livvy  quite  so  much.  He  was  tempted  to  alter  all 
his  plans  now  and  stay  in  London.  With  the  little 
Irish  rose  he  would  not  be  quite  alone,  nor  utterly 
miserable. 
15 


226     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

Yet  the  next  morning  at  ten  found  him  on  the 
railway  platform,  in  a  tweed  suit,  and  with  a  new 
Grladstone  bag. 

He  whistled  to  himself  softly  as  he  stood  by  the 
bookstall.  On  a  spring  morning,  with  the  country 
calling  to  him,  a  young  man  of  twenty-four  does 
not  find  it  easy  to  wear  a  hang-dog  face.  Oliver 
Lumley  left  London  and  the  scenes  of  his  failure 
with  surprising  cheerfulness. 


CHAPTER   XXVIII 

The  Threshold  of  Fate 

Oliver  walked  up  the  High  Street  of  Windlesham, 
staring  in  the  shop  windows  of  the  small  market 
town  in  the  heart  of  the  Worcestershire  wood- 
lands. 

In  half  an  hour  he  learnt  quite  a  lot  about  the 
character  of  the  town  and  the  people,  but  was  still 
left  wondering  what  freak  of  brain  had  impelled 
him  to  come  the  long  journey  to  a  place  in  which 
he  was  an  absolute  stranger,  in  which  there  was  no 
possible  means  of  livelihood,  and  where  he  had  not 
yet  found  the  house  of  Virginia  Garland,  his  un- 
known correspondent. 

When  he  had  found  it,  what  then  ?  Doubtless  the 
lady  would  give  him  tea  and  hope  that  he  was  very 
well.  What  good  would  that  do  to  a  young  man 
up  against  a  brick  wall  of  life  ? 

He  had  asked  himself  these  questions  early  in 
the  morning,  before  taking  his  ticket  at  Paddington. 
In  the  cold  light  of  day  he  had  lost  the  warm  glow 
of  his  imagination,  in  which  the  vague  figure  of 
Virginia  Garland  beckoned  to  him  as  a  lady  of 
good  succour.     But  he  took  the  ticket. 

He  had  asked  himself  the  same  question  when 
227 


22  8     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

sitting  in  the  corner  of  a  third-class  railway  carriage, 
he  watched  the  landscape  fly  past,  with  the  silver 
coils  of  winding  rivers,  with  the  sun  gleaming  on 
the  whitewashed  houses  of  villages  on  the  hillsides 
and  in  the  valleys,  with  meadows  and  woods  so 
brightly  green  on  this  first  day  of  June  that  they 
looked  like  oil-paintings  by  Royal  Academicians, 
freshly  varnished,  and  quite  unnatural. 

When  he  stepped  out  of  Windlesham  railway 
station,  ignoring  the  genial  signs  of  three  cab- 
drivers,  he  was  mildly  amused  by  his  own 
absurdity.  This  amusement  increased  so  that  he 
laughed  aloud  when  he  stood  outside  a  milliner's 
shop  in  the  High  Street,  staring  at  some  hand- 
made lace  and  elaborate  tea-cosies. 

A  little  old  lady  with  white  hair,  who  was  dusting 
her  counter,  watched  the  handsome  young  man 
outside  the  window,  and  wondered  why  he  should 
laugh  at  her  beautiful  needlework.  She  could  not 
guess  that  the  young  man  had  not  even  seen  her 
tea-cosies,  but  was  laughing,  not  in  a  mirthful  way, 
at  his  own  folly. 

He  had  luncheon  at  the  White  Bear,  a  noble 
old  inn  with  a  square  courtyard  and  timbered 
walls  and  immense  chimney-stacks  and  low- 
ceilinged  rooms  panelled  in  dark  oak. 

As  he  was  eating  his  cold  beef  and  pickles,  he 
listened  to  the  conversation  of  a  dozen  young 
farmers  in  homespun  suits  and  cloth  gaiters,  who 
were  making  a  prodigious  meal  and  drinking  beer 


The  Threshold  of  Fate    229 

out  of  pewter  pots  as  bright  as  silver.  Outside  the 
window  Oliver  could  see  in  the  market-square 
their  gigs  with  empty  shafts.  They  spoke  in  a 
broad,  full-flavoured  dialect,  and  laughed  heartily 
for  no  apparent  reason.  They  roared  with  laughter 
when  one  of  them  drank  a  pint  of  beer  at  one 
draught,  and  then  called  for  more.  Oliver  envied 
their  high  spirits. 

After  the  meal  he  went  into  the  bar  and  spoke 
to  a  buxom  young  woman  with  yellow  hair,  who 
was  reading  The  Windleshain  Gazette  with  her 
elbows  on  the  counter. 

"  Can  you  tell  me  where  Miss  Virginia  Garland 
lives  ?     She  calls  her  house  '  The  Rookery.'  " 

"  Funny  thing  !  "  said  the  young  woman. 

"What's  funny?" 

"  I  was  just  reading  her  name." 

She  pointed  to  a  paragraph  in  the  paper : 

"  Miss  Virginia  Garland  entertained  the  Sunday- 
school  children  of  St.  Ursula's  in  her  beautiful 
garden  yesterday.  The  Vicar  was  present,  and 
made  a  brief  speech,  full  of  his  accustomed  wit  and 
humour.  The  children  played  games  on  the  lawn, 
including  an  egg-and-spoon  race,  in  which  the 
Vicar  was  an  enthusiastic  competitor.  We  are 
glad  to  learn  that  Miss  Garland  is  in  better 
health." 

''  Has  she  been  ill,  then  ?  "  asked  Oliver. 

"  She's  always  delicate,"  replied  the  young  lady 


230     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

behind  the  bar.  "  We  don't  see  her  often  in 
the  town,  and  never  when  the  wind  is  in  the 
east." 

She  told  Oliver  the  way  to  The  Rookery. 

"  You  can't  mistake  it.  Straight  up  the  street. 
Last  house  on  the  right,  with  a  high  wall  round  the 
garden." 

Oliver  would  have  been  glad  to  ask  more 
questions  about  the  lady  whom  he  had  travelled 
so  far  to  see,  but  the  farmers  now  came  into 
the  bar  and  monopolised  the  attention  of  the 
young  woman. 

He  went  out  of  the  White  Bear,  and  walked  up 
the  High  Street  in  the  direction  of  The  Rookery. 
But  he  stopped  to  look  in  the  shop  windows  again, 
overtaken  by  a  strange  nervousness.  He  was  half 
inclined  to  go  to  the  railway  station  and  take  the 
next  train  to  town.  He  stared  at  the  picture  post- 
cards of  Gaiety  actresses  in  a  stationer's  shop,  and 
tried  to  think  out  the  line  of  his  conversation  with 
Miss  Garland.  In  his  letters  to  her  he  had  been 
candid  in  self-revelation.  It  put  him  into  an 
awkward  position. 

A  governess  cart  full  of  chattering  children,  with 
a  prim  nurse,  drew  up  at  a  confectioner's  shop.  A 
pony-chaise  driven  by  an  old  lady  stopped  at  the 
greengrocer's. 

Oliver  wondered  if  by  any  chance  the  old  lady 
might  be  Virginia  Garland.  The  idea  staggered 
him.     It  was  the  first  time  he  had  ever  pictured 


The  Threshold  of  Fate    231 

the  woman  with  whom  he  had  corresponded  as 
anything  but  young  and  beautiful.  But  it  was 
just  as  likely  that  she  was  old  enough  to  be  his 
grandmother. 

He  became  convinced  that  this  lady  with  white 
curls  under  a  black  bonnet  giving  orders  to  the 
greengrocer,  who  had  come  out  on  to  the  pave- 
ment and  was  stroking  the  pony's  nose,  was  Miss 
Garland  herself.  He  was  relieved  when  the  man 
said,  "  Yes,  Miss  Holiday.  You  shall  have  them 
in  half  an  hour.  Miss  Holiday.  Certainly,  Miss 
Holiday." 

A  high  dogcart  came  rattling  round  the  market 
square,  and  then  with  a  clatter  of  hoofs  pulled  up 
outside  the  stationer's  shop.  A  smart  little  groom 
held  the  horse's  head,  while  the  lady,  who  had 
been  driving,  put  one  foot  on  the  step  and  jumped 
lightly  down. 

Oliver,  standing  at  the  shop  window,  turned  to 
look  at  her.  She  was  tall,  and  in  a  tightly  fitting 
costume  of  light  brown  cloth,  showing  the  lines  of 
a  full  and  graceful  figure.  She  wore  a  fawn- 
coloured  felt  hat,  turned  up  on  one  side,  and 
Oliver  noticed  the  colour  of  her  hair,  which  was 
of  a  rich  chestnut.  She  turned  her  face  towards 
him  as  she  went  into  the  shop,  and  their  eyes  met. 
They  were  startling  eyes,  bold  and  challenging, 
and  her  face  was  of  an  unusual  type  for  a  country 
town.  It  was  an  oval  face,  with  a  long,  full  mouth, 
and  softly  rounded  chin.     There  was   a  flush   of 


232     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

bright  colour  on  her  cheeks,  not  quite  natural  in 
its  glow,  thought  Oliver.  Anyhow,  she  was  a 
striking  figure  as  she  jumped  from  the  dogcart 
and  went  into  the  shop.  The  bold  glance  of  her 
eyes  left  Oliver  with  an  uncomfortable  feeling 
down  his  backbone. 

Again  the  thought  came  to  him, "  Is  that  Virginia 
Garland  ?  "  If  so,  there  would  be  an  adventure  at 
his  journey's  end. 

He  waited  in  the  doorway  of  another  shop  until 
the  lady  came  out  again.  She  turned  her  head  to 
the  right  and  left,  as  though  searching  for  him,  and 
again  their  eyes  met.  Her  long,  full  lips  seemed 
to  soften  into  the  faintest  smile.  Then  she  sprang 
up  again  to  her  seat  on  the  dogcart.  He  saw  a 
glimpse  of  a  brown  stocking  and  a  well-shaped  leg. 
She  jerked  the  ribbons,  the  little  groom  folded  his 
arms  on  the  back  seat.  The  lady  with  the  chest- 
nut hair  drove  at  a  very  smart  pace — in  the 
direction  of  The  Rookery. 

"Good  Lord  !  "  said  Oliver.  "  If  that  is  Virginia 
Garland,  I  shall  have  to  be  careful." 

He  walked  slowly  beyond  the  market-square 
and  beyond  the  few  shops,  along  a  wide  street 
lined  with  beech-trees.  It  was  half-past  three,  and 
the  afternoon  sun  gave  a  rich  colour  to  the  dark 
red-brick  Georgian  houses  on  either  side  of  the 
way.  With  their  many-sashed  windows  and 
square  oak  doors  between  fluted  pillars,  these 
straight,   plain   houses   had   a   fine,   old-fashioned 


The  Threshold  of  Fate    233 

dignity.  Nobody  went  in  or  out  of  them,  but 
their  door-knockers  were  brightly  polished,  and 
their  steps  were  as  white  as  snow.  There  was  a 
sense  of  perfect  peace  and  quietude  in  this  old 
High  Street — of  comfortable  security  from  all  the 
worries  and  troubles  of  modern  life.  To  a  man 
who  had  come  straight  from  the  rush  and  roar 
of  London  it  was  restful. 

Oliver  walked  on  until  the  line  of  houses  stopped 
abruptly,  and  gave  place  to  three  or  four  cottages 
with  thatched  roofs  and  small  front  gardens.  Not 
yet  had  he  seen  The  Rookery. 

There  was  a  young  girl  in  the  garden  of  the  last 
cottage.  She  was  sitting  on  a  wooden  chair, 
knitting  so  swiftly  that  her  needles  seemed  like 
quivering  sparks  of  light. 

"Can  you  tell  me  where  The  Rookery  is,  my 
dear  ?  "  asked  Oliver,  leaning  over  the  gate. 

The  girl  dropped  her  knitting  into  her  lap,  and 
then,  getting  up,  walked  nearer  to  the  gate.  She 
was  a  tall,  plump  lass  of  eighteen  or  so,  in  a  cotton 
frock,  with  cheeks  blooming  like  roses,  and  a  coil 
of  flaxen  hair  in  which  the  sun  glinted. 

"  Did  you  say  The  Rookery  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  Miss  Garland's." 

She  gave  a  giggle,  as  though  amused  by  his 
ignorance. 

"  Why,  it's  just  yonder." 

She  pointed  to  a  square  grey  house  beyond  a 
high  wall  next  to  the  cottage. 


2  34     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

"  Everybody  knows  Miss  Garland's." 

"Well,  I  don't,"  said  Oliver.  "Anyhow,  I  am 
much  obliged  to  you." 

He  paused,  and  said,  "  You're  a  pretty  girl. 
What's  your  name  ?  " 

"  What's  that  to  you  ?  " 

The  girl  grinned  up  at  him,  a  hand  on  her  broad 
hip. 

"True,"  said  Oliver,  "it's  nothing  to  me." 

He  smiled  back  at  her,  and,  taking  his  arms 
over  the  garden  gate,  turned  away. 

The  girl  called  after  him. 

"  Hi !  " 

He  looked  back  and  said : 

"  Yes  ? " 

"  My  name  is  Alice." 

"  Well,  good-afternoon,  Alice,"  said  Oliver. 

He  walked  the  length  of  the  high  wall  until  he 
came  to  the  square,  grey  house.  There,  plain 
enough  on  the  wooden  gate,  was  painted  in  white 
letters,  "The  Rookery." 

A  broad  drive,  with  not  a  weed  in  its  gravel, 
led  up  to  a  flight  of  steps  and  to  the  front  door 
beyond  a  stone  portico.  It  was  a  big,  solid  house, 
with  a  gabled  roof  and  great  chimneys.  Every 
window  had  a  white  muslin  curtain.  As  Oliver 
walked  up  the  drive  a  strong,  rich  scent  was 
wafted  to  him.  It  was  the  fragrance  of  a  sweet- 
brier  in  the  closely  trimmed  hedges.  There  was 
an  iron  bell-handle  at  one  side  of  the  doorway! 


The  Threshold  of  Fate     235 

he  pulled  it,  and  as  he  heard  the  jingle  of  the  bell 
the  tinkling  music  set  his  heart  vibrating  with  a 
queer  emotion.  At  that  moment  Oliver  knew 
that  he  was  on  the  threshold  of  a  great  adventure 
in  his  life. 


CHAPTER    XXIX 

Virginia    Garland 

To  Oliver's  inquiry,  "  Is  Miss  Garland  at  home?" 
a  young  maid-servant  in  a  black  dress  and  spot- 
less cap  and  apron  said,  "  Yes,  sir.  Will  you  come 
in?" 

She  led  him  through  a  square  hall,  in  which 
a  log  fire  was  burning,  to  a  large  room  at  the 
back  of  the  house.  Oliver  gave  his  name  to  the 
maid,  and  then  was  left  alone  in  the  room.  A 
pair  of  tall  French  windows  were  wide  open,  and 
he  looked  out  into  a  big  garden  with  a  long 
lawn  below  a  terrace  with  an  ivy-covered  balustrade. 
At  the  end  of  the  garden  was  a  rustic  summer- 
house,  and  in  the  centre  of  the  lawn  was  a  dove-cot. 
Somewhere  the  doves  were  cooing  with  a  gentle 
murmur.  The  pathways  were  bordered  with 
standard  roses,  and  the  flower-beds  were  filled 
with  masses  of  delicate  colour.  The  fragrance  of 
them  stole  into  the  room,  and  in  a  bowl  on  the 
piano  there  was  a  bouquet  of  June  roses  which 
were  shedding  petals  upon  the  polished  wood. 
The  room  was  panelled  in  white,  and  furnished 
in  an  old-fashioned  way,  with  its  chairs  covered 
with  flowered  chintz.  There  were  oval  mirrors 
236 


Virginia  Garland  237 

on  the  walls,  and  coloured  engravings  by  Bartolozzi, 
and  over  the  mantelshelf  was  a  large  oil-painting 
of  a  beautiful  woman,  like  one  of  Sir  Joshua 
Reynolds's  ladies. 

Oliver's  quick  eyes  had  only  just  made  the 
survey  of  the  room  when  the  door  opened,  and 
he  knew  that  he  saw  Virginia  Garland  for  the 
first  time. 

She  stood  in  the  doorway  for  a  moment,  and 
he  saw  that  she  was  a  woman  of  about  thirty- 
five,  rather  tall  and  frail,  with  a  pale,  delicate  face 
and  large  grey  eyes.  Her  light  brown  hair  was 
parted  in  the  middle,  brushed  smoothly  down  and 
looped  over  the  ears.  She  wore  a  soft  grey  dress, 
with  white  lace  about  her  shoulders. 

"Mr.  Oliver  Lumley?" 

She  seemed  to  ask  if  it  could  be  true  that  this 
was  really  Oliver. 

"Yes.     Are  you  Miss  Garland?" 

Oliver  went  forward  quickly.  Then  he  noticed 
that  the  lady  leant  on  a  stick,  and  that  she 
seemed  lame. 

She  took  his  hand,  and  held  it  for  a  moment 
clasped  in  her  own,  which  was  long  and  thin. 

"  I  always  hoped  you  would  come  to  see  me." 

A  slight  colour  had  crept  into  her  pale  face. 

"  I  did  not  guess  you  were  so  young,"  she  said. 

"  Nor  had  I  any  idea  that  you  were  so " 

"  So  old  ? " 

She  smiled  as  she  asked  the  question. 


238     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

"  So  beautiful,"  said  Oliver. 

He  had  not  meant  to  say  that.  He  had  just 
blurted  out  his  sense  of  surprise.  The  real 
Virginia  Garland  was  so  different  from  his  dream- 
picture.  Yet  he  was  stirred  with  admiration  for 
the  perfect  delicacy  and  purity  of  her  face.  In 
those  grey  eyes  of  hers  there  was  the  spirit  of 
peace  and  truth. 

At  his  confession  of  her  beauty  she  blushed 
quite  deeply  now,  but  was  not  angry. 

"  No  one  has  ever  said  that  before  !  I  should 
be  glad  to  think  I  was  beautiful  ;  but  my  mirrors 
are  two  candid." 

She  spoke  with  perfect  simplicity. 

Then  she  said,  "Will  you  get  me  a  chair?  I 
am  a  little  lame." 

Oliver  sprang  to  a  chair,  and  brought  it  to 
her  with  an  apology.  She  sat  down,  and  rested 
her  stick  in  the  folds  of  her  gown.  Oliver  sat 
on  the  sofa,  a  little  distance  away.  He  wondered 
what  reason  he  should  give  for  coming  to 
VVindlesham. 

But  she  did  not  ask  for  a  reason.  She  made 
her  own  suggestion. 

"  Have  you  come  in  search  of  a  country  cottage  ? 
I  have  always  thought  that  you  ought  to  leave 
London,  and  write  in  greater  peace.  From  what 
you  told  me,  there  were  too  many  distractions, 
and  the  noise  of  the  town  was  too  wearing  to 
your  nerves." 


Virginia  Garland  239 

"  Horribly  wearing.  It  tore  my  nerves  to 
tatters.     Besides " 

"  Yes  ?  " 

Her  large  grey  eyes  rested  steadily  upon  his 
face. 

"  To  tell  the  truth,"  he  said,  "  I  found  life  too 
expensive.  You  see,  I  am  frightfully  poor.  I 
found  myself  getting  into  debt." 

He  was  startled  at  his  own  candour.  He  had 
not  been  a  minute  in  the  room  with  this  woman, 
yet  in  her  presence  his  pose  and  affectation 
seemed  to  fall  from  him.  He  could  not  lie  or 
pretend  before  those  truthful  eyes. 

"  You  told  me  you  were  poor,"  said  Virginia 
Garland, 

She  was  silent  for  a  moment,  and  then  said  : 

"  It  is  strange.  This  is  our  first  meeting,  and  yet 
I  seem  to  know  you  so  well.  It  was  good  of  you 
to  write  me  those  long  letters.  I  looked  forward 
to  them  very  much.  You  see  I  am  lonely  here.  I 
cannot  move  about  very  much.  My  life  is  practi- 
cally enclosed  within  the  four  walls  of  this  house 
and  garden.  So,  when  your  letters  came,  telling 
me  of  your  struggles  in  London,  it  seemed  to  bring 
me  in  touch  with  the  great  world  outside.  I  have 
always  hoped  for  your  success." 

"  Your  sympathy  has  been  very  encouraging. 
But  I  have  been  a  failure." 

"  Oh,  you  are  too  young  for  such  a  word  !  "  said 
Miss  Garland.     "  And,  indeed,  your  stories  have 


240     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

been  a  success.  My  friends  in  Windlesham  have 
always  looked  out  for  them.  The  vicar  likes  them 
very  much.     So  does  the  doctor." 

Oliver  laughed. 

"  Evidently  I  have  more  friends  here  than  I 
guessed." 

"  You  must  write  a  novel,"  said  Miss  Garland — 
"  a  successful  novel.  Is  not  that  the  way  to  make 
money  ?  " 

"  If  the  novel  is  successful — yes.  But  that  begs 
the  question." 

"  Oh,  it  must  be  successful ! " 

Virginia  Garland  laughed  now. 

"  You  must  take  the  little  cottage  I  wrote  about. 
It  is  very  quiet  and  pretty,  and  I  am  sure  if  you 
write  a  novel  there  it  will  be  a  success.  You  will 
have  no  interruptions,  and  the  flowers  in  the  garden 
will  give  beautiful  thoughts  to  you." 

"  It  is  not  a  bad  idea,"  said  Oliver,  answering  her 
smile.     "  How  much  is  the  rent  ?  " 

Virginia  Garland  became  slightly  embarrassed. 

"  It  belongs  to  me.  I  have  not  let  it  since  last 
summer.  We  could  decide  upon  the  rent  after- 
wards— if  the  novel  is  a  success." 

Oliver  understood  that  she  offered  it  to  him  rent 
free. 

"  It  is  immensely  kind  of  you.  It  sounds 
delightful." 

"  I  will  take  you  to  see  it  after  tea.  Shall  we 
have  that  in  the  garden  ?    It  is  quite  warm  to-day.' 


Virginia  Garland  241 

"  Your  garden  is  like  a  dream,"  said  Oliver. 

"  It  is  my  little  dream-world.  Come,  I  will  show 
it  to  you ! " 

She  stood  up  from  her  chair,  leaning  slightly  on 
her  stick.  But  for  her  lameness  she  would  have 
been  an  elegant  and  graceful  woman.  The  light 
from  the  French  windows  fell  upon  her  face,  and 
touched  her  hair,  and  gave  her  a  strangely  spiritual 
look.  It  was  a  pity,  thought  Oliver,  that  she  should 
have  to  hobble  into  her  garden. 

At  the  top  of  the  stone  steps  leading  down  to 
the  lawn  she  said  : 

"  I  am  afraid  I  shall  have  to  ask  you  to  lend  me 
your  arm.     Do  you  mind  ? " 

Oliver  strode  to  her  side,  and  she  leaned  quite 
heavily  upon  his  arm,  and  went  down  the  steps  one 
at  a  time. 

"  I  have  been  like  this  since  childhood.  I  used 
to  pray  that  my  hip  would  be  cured.  Now  I  pray 
that  I  may  bear  it  cheerfully." 

"  It  keeps  you  a  prisoner,"  said  Oliver,  with 
pity  in  his  voice. 

"  Ah,  but  it  is  a  beautiful  prison,  is  it  not  ? " 

She  looked  round  upon  her  garden,  and  there 
was  love  in  her  eyes.  A  white  dove  came  fluttering 
down  from  the  cot.  It  preened  itself  on  the  lawn 
about  her,  puffing  out  its  white  breast.  It  seemed 
to  Oliver  that  as  she  went  down  the  path  by  the 
lawn  the  roses  gave  out  a  deeper  fragrance,  and 
that  as  she  passed  a  bank  of  sweet  peas,  rioting  in 
16 


2^2     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

colour,  they  nodded  their  heads  to  her.  From  the 
summer-house  two  shaggy  sheep-dogs  came  out, 
stretching  their  limbs,  and  yawning.  They  sniffed 
round  Oliver,  and  then  gambolled  round  their 
mistress.     She  called  to  them : 

"  Lie  down,  Ranter.  Down,  Rory.  Wicked 
fellows  ! " 

A  sun-dial  was  on  the  lawn,  and  she  said  how 
often  she  had  watched  the  shadow  creep  across  the 
hours  here. 

Four  or  five  garden-chairs  were  arranged  in  a 
half-circle  in  front  of  the  summer-house,  and  from 
one  of  them  she  picked  up  a  book,  lying  face  down- 
wards. Oliver  took  the  book  from  her — it  was  a 
volume  of  Ruskin's  "  Modern  Painters " — and 
arranged  the  chair  for  her. 

"  You  have  not  seen  half  my  garden,"  she  said. 
"  But  this  is  the  prettiest  part.  Behind  are 
kitchen  gardens,  and  my  herbarium  and  the  glass- 
houses. Winter  and  summer  I  find  my  pleasure 
here." 

"  Don't  you  pine  for  a  change  sometimes  ? " 
asked  Oliver. 

"  Not  now.  I  have  got  over  that.  When  I  was 
younger  I  used  to  go  abroad.  My  father  took  me 
to  France  and  Italy.  But  it  made  me  so  tired. 
Now  that  I  am  alone — my  father  died  three  years 
ago  and  my  mother  when  I  was  still  a  child — I 
do  not  care  to  go  about.  So  here  I  do  my  garden- 
ing (at  least  I  give  orders  to  my  gardeners),  and 


Virginia  Garland  243 

when  the  weather  is  warm  enough  I  sit  here,  and 
read  and  read." 

She  laughed,  and  said  that  Oliver  could  not 
guess  how  many  books  she  read  during  a  year. 
Novels  gave  her  most  pleasure,  yet  for  duty's  sake 
she  read  a  great  deal  of  history,  and  all  the  poetry, 
of  course,  she  could  lay  hands  on. 

"  I  am  a  faithful  friend  to  minor  poets,"  she 
said.     "  I  buy  all  their  little  books." 

She  asked  Oliver  whether  he  wrote  poetry,  and 
was  disappointed  when  he  said  that  he  could  not 
confess  to  a  single  verse. 

The  maid-servant  came  across  the  lawn  with  a 
silver  tea-tray,  and  placed  it  on  a  small  wooden  table. 
The  sun  was  glowing  with  a  golden  light.  The 
doves  cooed  with  an  incessant  murmur.  Birds 
were  twittering  in  the  hedges,  and  from  the  tops 
of  the  elm-trees  at  the  far  end  of  the  garden  rooks 
were  cawing — cawing  in  a  drowsy  monotone.  A 
church  bell  struck  four.  The  silver  notes  chimed 
sweetly  beyond  the  high  grey  wall.  There  was 
a  great  peace  in  the  garden.  Oliver  felt  its  bene- 
diction upon  him. 

After  tea,  during  which  Virginia  Garland  spoke 
of  books  and  flowers,  she  led  him  through  the 
kitchen  garden,  and  past  a  long  line  of  glass 
houses,  and  then  through  an  old-fashioned  iron- 
studded  door  in  the  high  grey  wall.  It  led  out 
into  a  narrow,  winding  lane — Whirligig  Lane  she 
called  it — and  presently  they  came  to  a  thatched 


244     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

cottage  on  the  top  of  a  steep  bank,  where  ferns 
and  wild  flowers  grew  luxuriantly.  Some  steps  had 
been  cut  into  this  bank,  and  a  little  white  gate  at 
the  head  of  them  opened  into  the  cottage  garden. 

Oliver  had  to  give  his  hand  to  Miss  Garland 
to  help  her  up  the  steps,  and  she  panted  a  little 
in  the  doorway  of  the  cottage,  and  said,  "  Oh,  I 
am  no  good  for  climbing  !" 

"  Why,  it  is  furnished  ! "  said  Oliver,  peeping 
through  the  window  into  the  sitting-room. 

"Of  course!  It  has  been  a  hobby  of  mine. 
I  had  a  married  couple  here  once  during  the 
summer  months,  and  made  it  as  dainty  as  possible 
for  them.  But  they  were  afraid  of  the  owls  which 
hooted  in  the  trees  at  night.  Fancy  being  afraid 
of  owls ! » 

She  led  the  way  inside,  and  told  Oliver  that 
when  a  fire  had  been  lighted  for  a  few  hours  it 
would  be  quite  cosy. 

"  Look,  here  you  can  write  your  novel !  "  She 
pointed  to  a  writing-desk  in  the  sitting-room, 
which  was  furnished  simply  enough,  with  rush- 
bottomed  chairs,  a  small  oak  table,  an  old  oak 
chest,  and  the  writing-desk  itself  The  kitchen 
was  a  small  place ;  but  on  a  high  dresser  was 
plenty  of  china,  and  the  grate  was  brightly  polished, 
with  pots  and  pans  upon  the  stove. 

"  We  always  keep  the  place  clean  and  bright," 
said  Miss  Garland.  "  Look,  here  is  the  bedroom. 
Is  it  not  a  pretty  place  ? " 


Virginia  Garland  245 

It  was  a  fairy-tale  bedroom,  with  a  great  oak 
beam  across  the  plastered  ceiling  and  a  lattice 
window  looking  out  to  a  green  field.  On  a  white- 
wood  dressing-table  was  an  oval  mirror,  and  there 
was  a  miniature  chest  of  drawers,  and  a  big  cup- 
board, a  bed  draped  round  with  white  muslin, 
and  a  wash-hand  stand  with  white  china  on  which 
red  roses  bloomed. 

*'  A  man  should  have  good  dreams  here ! "  said 
Oliver. 

"  I  should  be  very  happy  if  you  cared  to  stay 
here,"  said  Miss  Garland. 

She  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  bed,  and  told  him 
in  a  simple,  practical  way  of  how  she  would  have 
to  get  the  bed  aired  for  him,  and  the  rooms  warmed, 
and  of  how,  if  he  came,  she  would  get  a  village 
girl  to  wait  on  him. 

"  There  is  a  girl  named  Alice,  who  wants  some 
work  to  do  to  help  her  people.  She  lives  in  a 
cottage  next  to  The  Rookery  wall. 

"  I  think  I  know  Alice,"  said  Oliver.  "  She  told 
me  the  way  here.     A  pretty  girl." 

"  Yes,  pretty — and  good,  I  think.  She  sings 
in  the  choir." 

So  it  was  all  arranged.  Oliver  was  to  take  up 
his  dwelling  in  Myrtle  Cottage  the  very  next  night. 
For  one  night  he  would  stay  at  the  White  Bear. 

He  walked  back  with  Virginia  Garland  to  The 
Rookery.  The  sun  was  beginning  to  lose  its 
splendour,  and  there  was  a  beautiful  rosiness  in 


246     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

the  garden  and  purple  shadows  in  the  paths  be- 
tween the  hedges.  He  stayed  talking  in  the 
drawing-room  until  the  dusk  came,  and  he  saw 
Virginia  Garland's  face  in  a  pale  half-light  which 
gave  a  mystery  to  it.  He  was  astonished  how 
completely  her  simplicity  of  manner  had  put  him 
at  his  ease.  She  was  as  sympathetic  in  her  speech 
as  in  the  letters  she  had  sent  to  Barton  Street. 
It  seemed  to  him,  curiously,  that  her  lameness 
made  her  more  charming  and  beautiful. 

As  he  said  good-bye  and  thanked  her  with 
boyish  warmth  for  her  great  kindness,  he  noticed 
the  cool,  soft  touch  and  the  transparency  of  the 
hand  that  clasped  his  own. 

"  I  am  so  glad  to  know  you  at  last,"  he  said, 
"  after  all  our  letters  to  each  other." 

Her  grey  eyes  smiled  at  him. 

"  Somehow  I  thought  you  would  come  here  one 
day.     I  seemed  to  be  waiting  for  you." 


CHAPTER   XXX 

A  Cockney  in  the  Woods 

Oliver,  like  the  young  married  couple  who  had 
lived  in  Myrtle  Cottage,  did  not  like  the  owls. 
Their  plaintive  hooting,  as  he  sat  alone  some 
evenings,  seemed  to  him  like  lost  souls  wailing  in 
the  night.  Sometimes  it  seemed  to  him  that 
witch  voices  were  calling  him,  and  he  was  afraid. 

The  silence  also,  and  the  impenetrable  darkness 
of  country  nights,  got  upon  his  nerves.  The  lane 
outside  his  cottage  was  a  black  tunnel  when  no 
moon  was  up,  or,  if  the  moon  shone,  the  play  of 
light  and  shadow  through  the  leaves  startled  him. 
As  a  Cockney — or  at  least  a  Suburbanite,  bred 
and  born — he  did  not  understand  the  significance 
of  country  sounds.  Once  when  he  was  walking 
back  from  The  Rookery  at  night  he  had  a  shock 
which  gave  him  "  goose-flesh,"  and  made  a  coward 
of  him.  It  seemed  that  some  human  being  was 
asleep,  close  to  him,  across  a  hedge.  He  heard 
the  regular  rhythm  of  its  lungs,  the  deep,  sighing 
breath  that  was  half  a  snore,  but  horribly  loud 
for  an  ordinary  mortal.  It  was  as  though  some 
hulking  giant  were  stretched  out  in  drunken 
slumber.  Of  course  it  was  nothing  but  a  harm- 
247 


248     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

less  cow,  as  he  soon  found  out ;  but  it  shocked  his 
nerves. 

It  was  worse  to  sit  alone  at  night,  writing,  in  his 
little  sitting-room.  The  silence  closed  about  him 
as  though  his  ears  were  stuffed  with  cotton- wool, 
until  suddenly  some  queer  sound  made  his  pulse 
jump.  It  was  the  creak  of  a  cane  chair,  or  a 
scratching  at  the  woodwork  of  the  wall,  or  the 
movement  of  an  invisible  insect,  like  the  ticking  of 
a  watch.  Once,  when  a  big  fat  moth  circled  over 
his  oil-lamp  and  then  flopped  on  to  his  paper,  beads 
of  cold  sweat  broke  out  upon  him,  and  he  was 
strangely  unnerved. 

For  the  first  few  nights  he  suffered  real  torture 
when  the  darkness  came,  though  he  tried  to  grapple 
with  his  cowardite  and  laugh  at  his  terrors.  One 
night  his  brain  reeled  to  the  verge  of  madness. 

He  was  sitting  with  his  table  drawn  close  to  the 
fire,  when  he  suddenly  jerked  up  his  head,  and 
Hstened  intently  with  strained  ears.  Surely  there 
were  footsteps  outside.  He  could  hear  the  pad  of 
soft  feet,  up  and  down,  up  and  down,  on  the  cobbled 
path  leading  from  the  garden  gate.  Then  his  head 
was  drawn  round,  as  by  invisible  hands,  towards 
the  window.  There,  looking  in  upon  him,  was  a 
white,  leprous  face,  with  two  burning  eyes.  He 
saw  a  glint  as  of  fire  in  the  eyes.  A  moment  later 
the  face  had  disappeared.  He  sat  motionless, 
stone-cold,  with  the  pupils  of  his  eyes  dilated,  a 
figure  of  fright.     The   face  appeared  again,  and 


A  Cockney  in  the  Woods  249 

stared  at  him  horribly.  He  gave  a  strangled  cry, 
and  seizing  a  wooden  stool  rushed  to  the  door, 
bursting  it  open  with  a  kick.  As  he  staggered 
outside,  a  grey  wolfish  form  slipped  across  the 
cottage  garden.  In  the  moonlight  he  saw  that 
it  was  a  lonely  sheep-dog.  Only  that !  It  was 
ludicrous.  But  Oliver  when  he  went  back  slowly 
to  his  room  did  not  laugh.  His  face  was  white 
and  drawn.  He  had  a  haunted  look.  He 
wondered  how  long  he  could  stand  his  life  in 
Windlesham  with  these  night-alarms. 

Undoubtedly  his  nerves  were  overwrought.  He 
suffered  from  dejection  bordering  on  melancholia. 
A  thousand  times  he  cursed  himself  for  a  fool  for 
having  abandoned  London.  Remorse,  self-accusa- 
tion, and  regret  weighed  him  down,  so  that  he  sat 
with  his  head  in  his  hands,  with  bowed  shoulders. 
He  had  made  a  pretty  idiot  of  himself!  At  the 
outset  he  had  blighted  his  career.  His  high, 
fantastic  hopes  had  ended  in  debt  and  dismal 
failure.  He  had  failed  in  his  work  and  in  his  love. 
He  thought  of  Katherine  and  yearned  for  her. 
He  roamed  over  his  adventures  with  her,  he  lived 
again  through  the  hours  by  her  fireside,  and  his 
soul  cried  out  because  he  was  cut  off  from  that  life, 
which  was  now  a  memory  and  a  dream.  He  shed 
silly  tears  in  his  loneliness,  and  pitied  himself  in- 
tensely. It  was  his  cursed  temperament  that  had 
played  him  false — his  temperament  and  his  poverty. 
Poverty  was  the  root  of  all  evil.     As  Katherine 


250     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

said,  it  was  easy  to  be  virtuous  with  a  good  bank- 
ing account. 

These  miserable  thoughts  kept  him  in  low  spirits, 
yet  he  did  not  quite  lose  his  gift  of  laughter.  He 
laughed,  and  he  felt  it  was  good  to  laugh,  when 
Alice  Featherfew,  the  cottage  lass,  came  to  clean 
out  his  rooms  and  cook  his  meals.  She  was  a 
strapping  wench,  and  as  pretty  as  the  Goose-Girl 
at  the  Well  (with  the  same  flaxen  hair  and  blue 
eyes  and  milk-white  skin),  and  as  impudent  as  a 
saucy  child. 

She  had  no  reverence  for  a  young  man  who 
wanted  waiting  on,  though  she  was  glad  enough 
to  earn  his  money.  In  the  morning  she  would 
come  with  a  long  broom,  and  make  a  great  dust 
and  clatter  with  it,  sweeping  a  room  like  a  sturdy 
gardener  with  loose  weeds  on  the  path.  She  swept 
against  Oliver's  feet  as  he  sat  at  his  desk,  and  said, 
"  Hi,  can't  you  get  out  of  the  way  ?  How  do  you 
expect  me  to  do  my  work  ?  " 

She  was  filled  with  child-like  astonishment  at  his 
personal  belongings.  His  patent  boots  with  cloth 
uppers  provoked  her  laughter. 

"  They  be  fit  for  maids,  not  men,"  she  said.  "  I 
do  fancy  you  walking  in  ploughed  fields  with 
them  ! " 

He  had  hung  out  his  dress-suit  to  air,  and  she 
tiptoed  to  his  trousers,  and  put  a  smudgy  finger 
down  the  silk  stripe  with  a  "  Lor'  now,  an'  dearie 
me ! "     She   desired   to   know  why  his   waistcoat 


A  Cockney  in  the  Woods   251 

was  cut  with  a  hole  in  the  middle,  and  why  he 
wore  tails  to  his  coat  like  a  jackdaw. 

If,  obviously,  he  had  nothing  to  do,  and  sat  on 
the  kitchen  table  swinging  his  legs  and  watching 
her  with  an  amused  smile,  listening  to  her  countri- 
fied chatter,  she  invited  him  not  to  be  a  lazy-bones, 
but  to  lend  a  hand  with  the  work.  So  he  got 
into  the  habit  of  making  the  bed  with  her,  and  she 
taught  him  how  to  fold  the  sheets  round  the 
bolster  and  how  to  tuck  the  blankets  in  at  the 
bottom. 

"  Begin  your  bed  at  the  foot,"  she  said,  "  and 
you'll  sleep  like  a  boog  in  a  roog," — though  it 
puzzled  her,  she  declared,  how  he  had  grown  so 
big  without  learning  these  simple  things. 

She  gave  him  lessons  in  peeling  potatoes  and 
chopping  up  carrots,  and  was  amazed  at  his  clumsi- 
ness, and  then  when  she  had  set  him  to  work  she 
would  stand  with  her  hands  on  her  hips,  laughing 
at  him,  or  sit  on  a  wooden  stool,  with  her  red 
hands  clasped  in  her  lap,  giving  him  the  gossip  of 
Windlesham,  and  the  characters  of  her  neighbours, 
whom  she  summarised  as  mostly  bad.  It  seemed 
that  her  father  beat  her  with  a  broomstick  when  he 
was  in  drink  or  "  put  out,"  and  that  her  mother 
scolded  and  bullied  the  livelong  day. 

"  It  be  real  peace  to  coom  round  here,"  she  said, 
"  for  all  your  nonsense." 

For  Miss  Virginia  Garland  she  had  words  of 
praise,  qualified  by  a  little  criticism. 


252     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

"  A  kind  body,"  she  said,  "  and  means  well,  but 
just  a  poor  frail  thing." 

According  to  Alice  Featherfew,  Miss  Garland 
had  a  nasty  habit  of  poking  her  nose,  as  far  as  her 
legs  would  carry  it,  into  other  people's  cottages, 
and  she  could  smell  a  speck  of  dirt  a  yard  away. 
She  told  the  mothers  how  to  manage  their  babies, 
and  the  children  how  to  behave  at  school,  and 
how  to  say  their  prayers.  She  also  conducted  the 
church  choir,  of  which  Alice  herself  was  a  member. 
They  put  up  with  the  fussy  ways  of  Miss  Garland 
because  she  was  open-handed  with  her  money, 
and  did  needlework  all  the  year  round  for  the 
women  and  babes,  and  brought  them  medicines 
and  soups  and  blankets  and  goodies  when  they 
"  took  ill."  But  her  eyes  made  Alice  skeery.  They 
looked  one  through  and  through,  and  she  was  very 
"  strict."  Hot-tempered,  too,  at  times.  Alice  had 
seen  her  talk  to  a  man  who  had  been  ill-using  a 
young  girl  until  he  was  as  white  as  a  puff-ball, 
and  all  of  a  tremble.  Miss  Garland's  eyes  were 
two  fires,  and  her  voice  like  the  high  note  in  the 
organ,  the  one  that  thrills  down  the  backbone. 
Alice  would  not  like  to  go  wrong  with  Miss 
Garland's  eyes  within  a  mile  of  her.  They 
would  search  out  a  secret  in  the  middle  of  a  hay- 
stack. 

Oliver  was  interested  in  these  sidelights  on 
Virginia  Garland's  character.  They  filled  out  his 
own  impressions  as  he  came  to  know  her  better, 


A  Cockney  in  the  Woods   253 

but  always  with  a  sense  of  mystery  lurking  behind 
his  knowledge.  He  was  also  interested  in  Alice, 
this  child  of  the  countryside,  with  her  candid 
speech  and  her  simple  way  of  stating  facts  and 
fancies. 

He  called  her  his  Cinderella,  and  sometimes  the 
Goose-Girl,  or  Patient  Griselda.  She  knew  none 
of  those  heroines  of  folk-lore,  so  he  told  the  stories 
to  her,  and  she  listened,  wide-eyed,  with  her  lips 
parted.  She  asked  for  more,  and  more,  but  he 
said  that  he  must  be  paid  for  his  trouble,  a  kiss 
for  each  story,  which  was  a  cheap  bargain  for  her. 
She  let  him  kiss  her,  shyly  at  first,  with  blushing 
and  giggling,  but  afterwards  liked  it,  story  or  no 
story. 

Meanwhile  Oliver  went  often  to  The  Rookery 
— every  day  at  some  hour  of  the  afternoon  or 
evening — and  the  spirit  of  Virginia  Garland  be- 
came entwined  with  his  life  during  those  weeks  in 
Windlesham. 

She  had  begun  her  friendship  with  him  by 
charity.  We  have  seen  what  use  he  made  of  it  in 
London,  and  now  she  sent  many  gifts  to  his 
cottage.  He  was  living  rent  free,  and  soon  he 
realised,  not  without  relief,  for  he  was  practically 
destitute,  that  he  would  never  starve  in  Myrtle 
Cottage.  Chickens,  nicely  trussed,  appeared 
mysteriously  in  the  small  larder.  One  of  the 
gardeners  would  come  to  the  cottage-door  with 
new-laid   eggs  and  pots  of  cream,  or  with  butter 


2  54     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

fresh  from  the  dairy  and  loaves  hot  from  the  oven. 
A  podgy-faced  boy  of  sixteen  or  so — he  drove 
Miss  Garland's  pony-chaise,  and  weeded  the  paths 
under  her  vigilant  eye — came  down  with  jars  of 
honey  or  newly  baked  cakes  or  bottles  of  home- 
made wine.  This  profusion  of  gifts  was  delightful 
but  embarrassing.  Oliver  complained  to  Miss 
Garland  that  she  had  made  a  poor  pensioner  of 
him,  and  that  she  was  sapping  his  manhood  by 
such  charity. 

She  declared  that  it  was  a  charity  of  his  to 
relieve  her  store-cupboards  and  her  kitchen- 
gardens. 

"  If  you  do  not  take  these  things,"  she  said, 
"they  will  be  wasted  and  spoilt." 

"  Then  I  take  them,"  said  Oliver,  "  with  a 
protest,  and  a  grateful  heart.  Immensely  grateful, 
dear  Miss  Garland." 

He  told  her  that  he  felt  like  Jean  Jacques 
Rousseau  with  Madame  de  Warens,  whom  he 
called  his  cJiere  mainati. 

Miss  Garland  blushed  at  this. 

"  She  was  not  a  very  nice  woman,  was  she  ?  " 

"  Oh,  charming,  and  very  kind  to  a  poor  devil  of 
a  literary  man." 

"  I  have  forgotten,"  said  Miss  Garland 


CHAPTER    XXXI 

Rural  Society 

Miss  Garland  had  good  friends,  who  came  to 
see  her  often,  and  called  her  "  my  dear."  Oliver 
was  introduced  to  them,  and  they  said  how 
charmed  they  were  to  meet  a  distinguished 
literary  man.  Although  they  lived  in  big  old 
Georgian  houses  in  the  town,  and  kept  servants 
and  gardeners  of  their  own,  and  drove  up  to  The 
Rookery  in  some  state — at  least,  in  a  brougham 
with  a  quiet,  well-fed  horse  and  a  discreet  and 
well-fed  coachman — they  did  not  look  down  upon 
him  because  he  dwelt  in  a  tiny  cottage.  They 
took  for  granted  that  a  literary  gentleman  should 
be  poor. 

Most  of  them  were  elderly  ladies,  and  when 
they  sat  on  Virginia  Garland's  lawn,  taking  tea 
with  her,  they  reminded  Oliver  of  grey  doves — 
they  were  so  gentle  and  so  placid.  There  was 
one  old  lady  among  them  with  silver  hair,  and 
a  delicate  old  face  that  must  have  been  beautiful 
in  her  girlhood.  She  was  the  Dowager  Countess 
of  Buntingford,  and  lived  in  an  old  Jacobean 
mansion  a  few  miles  away  from  VVindlesham. 
She  dressed  always  in  lavender  silk  and  a  little 
bonnet  with  silk  ribbons,  and  she  had  the  gracious 
255 


2^6     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

manner  and  exquisite  courtesy  of  a  French 
marquise  of  the  old  regime. 

Her  first  greeting  of  Oliver  was  characteristic, 
and  made  him  her  friend. 

"  You  are  a  very  handsome  young  man,  my 
dear,"  she  said.  "  Forty-five  years  ago  I  should 
have  fallen  in  love  with  you." 

Oliver  lifted  her  withered  old  hand — so  white 
and  thin — to  his  lips,  and  said  that  he  was  sorry 
he  was  forty-five  years  too  young  for  such  an 
honour.  That  won  her  heart,  and  she  patted  him 
on  the  hand,  and  said,  "  I  am  not  too  old  yet 
to  love  pretty  boys." 

When  they  met  again  in  the  garden,  she  took 
him  on  one  side,  and  said,  "  Young  man,  how 
many  hearts  have  you  broken  ?  Tell  me  that. 
You  have  wicked  black  eyes." 

"  Black,  but  not  wicked,"  said  Oliver. 

"  Well,  do  not  break  my  dear  Virginia's  heart. 
Promise  me  !  I  see  a  strange  light  in  her  face 
when  you  come  walking  across  the  grass.  Oh, 
I  have  very  sharp  eyes  myself" 

Oliver  blushed  like  a  schoolboy. 

"  Lady  Buntingford,  you  embarrass  me  !  Please 
do  not  say  such  things  to  Miss  Garland." 

She  whispered  into  his  ear. 

"  I  can  keep  a  secret !  " 

Then  she  laughed — a  silvery,  tinkling  laughter. 

"  Oh,  I  love  to  see  young  folks  love  one  another. 
I  like  to  watch  the  mating  of  love-birds." 


Rural  Society  257 

There  was  another  old  lady  who  came  to  The 
Rookery  lawn.  She  came  up  Windlesham  High 
Street  in  a  low  pony-trap  driven  by  a  thin,  clean- 
shaven old  man  in  rusty  black  and  a  silk  hat  that 
had  suffered  in  many  rains  and  snows.  He  was 
her  butler,  coachman,  and  gardener,  and  ruled  her 
with  a  rod  of  iron.  Yet  she  was  a  sturdy  and 
strong-willed  old  woman  of  eighty-five,  with  a 
lot  of  strength  in  her  old  bones  still,  as  she 
declared  frequently  with  pride.  Miss  Purchase 
was  her  name,  and  she  had  crinkled,  rosy  old 
cheeks,  like  an  apple  laid  up  long  in  the  store- 
cupboard,  and  bright  blue  eyes.  She  always  wore 
a  black  gimp  dress,  and  a  white  woollen  shawl 
over  her  shoulders,  and  as  she  came  across  the 
lawn,  clasping  a  big  umbrella,  she  looked  like  an 
old  gipsy  woman. 

Miss  Purchase  probably  owed  her  long  life  to  an 
intense  interest  in  the  affairs  of  her  neighbours. 
As  she  said,  it  kept  her  brain  active.  There  was 
no  scandal  in  Windlesham  but  that  she  inquired 
into  the  details  of  it  and  spread  the  news  as  an 
awful  warning  to  others.  No  baby  shed  its  wings 
before  coming  into  the  little  world  of  Windlesham 
without  Miss  Purchase  having  foreknowledge  of 
its  coming.  She  seemed  to  know  the  secrets  of 
every  cottage,  and  to  keep  a  catalogue  of  skeletons 
in  the  cupboards  of  Georgian  houses.  She  dragged 
them  forth,  and  rattled  their  bones  at  the  tea- 
table. 
17 


258     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

Not  often,  however,  at  Virginia  Garland's  tea- 
table.  In  the  middle  of  a  tit-bit  of  gossip  she 
would  stop  suddenly,  and  say,  "  My  dear  Virginia, 
if  you  look  at  me  with  those  sharp  swords  in  your 
eyes  you  will  make  me  dumb." 

Or  Virginia  Garland  would  hold  up  her  finger 
warningly,  and  say,  "  Hush  !     No  tittle-tattling  !  " 

"No  fiddlesticks!"  said  the  old  lady.  "If  I 
cannot  narrate  my  little  stories  of  human  interest, 
I  shall  creep  into  my  coffin." 

She  reproached  Miss  Garland  for  her  severity. 

"  My  dear,  you  are  like  one  of  those  mediaeval 
saints  who  lived  on  a  pedestal  above  the  market- 
place. I  like  people  who  come  down  to  the 
human  level." 

On  to  the  lawn  behind  the  grey  old  house  came 
other  ladies,  comfortable,  complacent  matrons,  in 
rustling  silks — they  had  the  latest  information  about 
the  dear  vicar — and  spinsters  like  Miss  Garland  her- 
self, who  had  resigned  themselves  to  unmarried  life 
but  still  warmed  their  hearts  before  little  altars  of 
romance.  In  the  distance,  as  Oliver  walked  to- 
wards them  sometimes  from  the  gate  in  the  garden 
wall,  he  heard  their  quiet  voices  and  silvery 
laughter,  and  as  the  sunlight  fell  upon  their  silks 
and  satins,  billowing  upon  the  emerald  carpet, 
he  thought  they  made  a  charming  picture  of 
country  peace.  In  the  centre  of  them  sat  Virginia 
Garland,  with  her  smooth  hair  and  delicate  face, 
serving   at   the  tea-table,  rather   silent  while   the 


Rural  Society  259 

others  talked,  but  smiling,  and  watchful  for  their 
comforts. 

One  day,  as  he  was  handing  tea-cakes  round, 
and  bending  towards  old  Lady  Buntingford,  he 
heard  a  clear  woman's  voice  ring  out  out  in  effusive 
greeting  to  Miss  Garland. 

"  My  dearest  Virginia  !     Such  an  age " 

Looking  up  he  saw  a  tall  woman  in  a  close- 
fitting  fawn-coloured  dress,  with  a  felt  hat  turned 
up  on  one  side  above  her  chestnut  hair.  It  was 
the  lady  whom  he  had  seen  driving  in  a  high  dog- 
cart during  his  first  afternoon  at  VVindlesham. 

She  kissed  Miss  Garland  on  both  cheeks,  and 
hoped  the  "  dear  thing  "  was  feeling  ever  so  well. 

"Very  well,  thank  you,  Mrs.  Perceval,"  said 
Virginia  Garland,  in  her  quiet  way.  Oliver,  who 
was  quick  to  read  the  expression  of  her  face,  now 
saw  that  she  was  slightly  disconcerted  at  the  visit. 

Mrs.  Perceval,as  the  lady  was  called,  greeted  some 
of  the  other  visitors  with  smiling  condescension 
and  then  turned  her  eyes  full  upon  Oliver.  He 
had  met  that  bold  stare  before. 

"  May  I  be  introduced  ?  " 

She  had  turned  to  Miss  Garland,  who  said, 
"  Mr.  Oliver  Lumley,  the  Hon.  Mrs.  Perceval." 

She  gave  him  her  hand,  holding  it  high. 

"  The  Lumleys  of  Westbrook  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Oliver. 

He  did  not  tell  the  lady  that  he  belonged  to  the 
Lumleys  of  Denmark  Hill. 


26o     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

"Oh,  I  knew  a  Colonel  Lumley  once — a  dear 
man.     Quite  the  best  dancer  in  Simla." 

She  sank  with  charming  grace  into  a  garden- 
chair,  and  said,  "  Bring  me  a  cup  of  tea,  Mr. 
Lumley,  lest  I  die.     It  is  really  quite  warm." 

He  brought  her  the  tea,  and  she  desired  him  to 
sit  down  and  talk  to  her. 

"  It  is  so  dull  here  in  Windlesham.  I  meet  so 
few  people  worth  talking  to." 

"  I  am  afraid  I  am  not  one  of  them,"  said  Oliver, 
with  mock  humility. 

"  Oh  no  1  I  have  heard  all  about  you.  You 
are  a  literary  man,  and  you  live  in  dear  Miss 
Garland's  cottage  in  the  lane,  and  you  take  tea  on 
the  lawn  almost  every  day,  and  she  sends  you  the 
first  fruits  of  her  garden.  I  am  so  glad  our  dear 
Miss  Garland  has  become  a  patron  of  literature,  in 
the  sweetest  and  most  old-fashioned  sense  of  the 
word." 

She  looked  across  to  the  lady  whose  name  she 
had  mentioned  so  often  in  one  breath,  and  smiled 
at  her. 

But  Virginia  Garland  did  not  return  the  smile, 
A  slight  flush  crept  into  her  face,  and  she  said 
quite  seriously : 

"  Mr.  Lumley  is  one  of  my  tenants.  That  is  all 
the  honour  I  may  claim." 

"  A  delightful  honour  !  It  must  be  so  nice  to 
have  a  literary  man  at  the  other  side  of  one's 
garden  wall.     So  romantic  1 " 


Rural  Society  261 

She  turned  to  Oliver. 

"  Tell  me,  what  do  you  write  about  ?  Love,  I  am 
sure," 

Oliver  did  not  deny  that  love  was  often  his 
theme. 

"  And  what  experience  have  you  had  ?  "  asked 
Mrs.  Perceval. 

She  laughed  vivaciously  at  his  embarrassment, 
and  said,  "  Oh,  you  writing  men  !  " 

A  curious  silence  had  fallen  upon  the  other 
ladies.  Old  Lady  Buntingford  sat  very  stiff  and 
straight,  with  her  black-gloved  hands  in  her  lap. 
It  gradually  dawned  on  Oliver,  while  Mrs.  Perceval 
was  talking  to  him  about  her  horrors  of  exile  as  the 
wife  of  an  invalid  soldier,  that  this  rather  beautiful 
woman  with  the  chestnut  hair  was  not  a  welcome 
visitor  on  The  Rookery  lawn. 

The  lady  herself  seemed  quite  unconscious  of 
the  silent  hostility  towards  her,  or  quite  careless  of 
it.  She  confined  her  conversation  entirely  to 
Oliver,  and  then  after  a  quarter  of  an  hour  she 
sprang  up  and  said,  "  I  must  positively  go.  But  it 
is  so  delightful  here.  Miss  Garland,  I  am  sure,  has 
the  nicest  tea  in  Windlesham." 

She  kissed  Virginia  Garland  on  each  cheek 
again. 

"  Good-bye.  I  am  so  glad  to  see  you  looking 
stronger.  Quite  a  colour  in  your  cheeks,  dear  ! 
The  effect  perhaps  of  having  a  literary  gentleman 
at  the  end  of  your  garden." 


262      Oliver's  Kind  Women 

She  gave  a  high  hand-shake  to  Oh'ver. 

"  You  must  come  and  dine  with  us.  My  hus- 
band would  be  so  glad  to  see  you.  And  I  crave 
for  a  conversationalist." 

With  the  greatest  good-humour,  and  shading 
her  face  with  her  lace  parasol,  she  went  out  of  the 
garden,  an  elegant  figure  in  the  golden  light  of  the 
afternoon. 

"  Upon  my  word  ! "  said  the  Dowager  Lady 
Buntingford,  "  that  woman  should  not  be  tolerated. 
A  bold,  bad  hussy." 

She  tapped  Oliver's  hand  with  her  lorgnette. 

"  A  dangerous  creature,  young  man.  Take  an 
old  woman's  advice  and  have  nothing  to  do  with 
her." 

"  I  do  not  think  we  know  anything  definite 
against  her,"  said  Miss  Garland.  "  It  is  only  her 
manner." 

"  Nothing  definite  ! "  said  old  Miss  Purchase, 
raising  her  hand.  "  My  dear,  if  you  would  only 
let  me  tell  the  sheaf  of  stories  I  have  collected." 

"  Pray  spare  us  ! "  said  Miss  Garland  carelessly. 
"  Let  us  talk  of  flowers.  They  are  always  innocent 
and  harmless." 

"  I  dare  say  there  would  be  scandals  in  the  flower- 
beds if  one  only  knew !  "  said  Miss  Purchase  wist- 
fully. 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

The  Garden  of  Peace 

It  was  a  brilliant  July,  hot  and  sultry  at  noon,  like 
the  dog-days  of  August,  cool  and  exquisite  in  the 
twilight,  when  shadows  crept  across  the  fields  and 
rose-pink  clouds  floated  in  a  pale  sky,  and  the 
scent  of  flowers  and  of  new-mown  hay  and  of  the 
fertile  earth  rose  as  a  rich  incense  in  the  quivering 
air. 

Upon  the  soul  of  Oliver  Lumley  there  descended 
tranquillity.  His  restless  heart  beat  to  a  steadier, 
quieter  rhythm.  It  seemed  to  him  at  times  that 
in  the  beauty  of  these  Worcestershire  woodlands 
he  had  got  away  from  the  fretfulness  of  life  and 
had  escaped  from  the  snares  of  his  own  nature. 

His  face  became  richly  sunburnt.  There  was  a 
brighter  light  in  his  dark  eyes.  He  walked  with  a 
springy  step.  The  perfect  health  of  young  man- 
hood gave  him  an  exaltation  of  spirits,  chasing 
away  the  melancholy  and  brooding  thoughts  that 
had  overshadowed  him  on  his  first  coming  to 
Windlesham. 

Yet  at  times  this  uplifting  of  mind  and  body  was 
almost  too  great.  It  was  a  kind  of  natural  intoxi- 
cation,  which   startled   him.      There   were    hours 


264     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

when  he  seemed  to  be  drunk  with  the  beauty  of 
the  earth.  London-bred,  he  did  not  know  the 
names  of  the  flowers  in  Virginia's  garden,  nor  in 
the  meadows  and  hedge-rows  ;  he  did  not  know  the 
birds  that  sang  in  the  beech-woods  behind  his 
cottage ;  but  the  colour-glories  of  the  flowers  and 
the  ecstatic  music  of  the  song-birds  thrilled  his 
senses  and  filled  him  with  an  indefinable  emotion, 
to  the  verge  of  silly  tears. 

Something  seemed  to  have  broken  inside  him — 
some  hard  crust.  He  lived  in  a  melting  mood, 
strangely  sensuous  in  his  sympathy  with  this  nature 
round  him. 

Once  he  was  scared  with  himself.  He  was 
standing  on  the  bank  of  the  river  Windle,  which 
coiled  through  the  country-side.  The  sunlight  had 
turned  its  water  to  crinkled  gold,  A  score  of  larks 
were  singing  an  endless  song  of  love  triumphant 
above  fields  of  clover  on  the  opposite  bank. 
Meadow-sweet  grew  about  him  where  he  stood, 
and  its  scent  was  wafted  to  him  with  every  breath 
of  wind.  A  church-bell  was  ringing.  Its  faint 
vibration  made  the  air  tremulous.  Round  a  bend 
of  the  river  a  girl's  voice  was  singing,  and  there 
was  the  lap  of  oars  upon  the  water.  Standing 
there  alone,  Oliver  suddenly  felt  his  heart  beating 
wildly.  His  nostrils  quivered,  a  yearning  took 
possession  of  him,  though  for  what  he  did  not  know 
and  could  not  understand.  It  was  a  kind  of  hunger 
to  be  absorbed  in  this  nature,  to  be  one  with  it. 


The  Garden  of  Peace      265 

Walking  back  through  quiet  woods  to  his 
cottage  there  were  strange  stirrings  of  romance  in 
his  heart.  The  eternal  spirit  of  boyhood  seemed 
to  surge  up  in  him.  He  desired  an  adventure  in 
the  wood.  He  peered  down  a  glade,  where  the 
light  fell  aslant  through  the  high  branches,  like  a 
faun  searching  for  a  wood-nymph.  But  he  saw 
only  rabbits  scuttling  across  the  pathway  and  a 
bird  with  greenish  plumage  piping  on  a  twig  to  a 
hidden  mate. 

At  his  garden  gate  he  met  Virginia  Garland. 
She  had  watched  him  coming  across  the  field  and 
the  stile,  and  laughed  when  he  raised  his  head  and 
saw  her  only  when  quite  close. 

"  What  were  you  thinking  of  so  furiously  ?  That 
great  novel  of  yours  ?  " 

"  No.  I  cannot  write  my  silly  trash  when  the 
sun  is  shining  and  the  world's  beauty  calls  out  so 
loud." 

He  held  his  straw  hat  in  his  hand,  and  the  sun 
streamed  upon  his  dark  hair  and  bronzed  face  and 
white  flannels. 

"  Are  you  strong  enough  to  walk  a  little  ?  Let 
us  go  and  sit  under  the  trees  and  talk,  I  must  play 
truant  from  work  to-day." 

"  I  am  afraid  you  are  too  often  a  truant." 

She  put  her  hand  upon  his  arm  and  they  walked, 
very  slowly,  back  into  the  wood,  and  into  the  cool 
depths  of  it.  Then  Virginia  Garland  sat  upon  the 
trunk  of  a  fallen  tree.     She  took  off  her  hat,  and 


266     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

laid  it  in  the  lap  of  her  grey  dress.  Oliver  lay 
down  upon  the  peaty  turf  a  yard  away,  with  his 
elbows  dug  into  the  ground  and  his  face  propped  in 
his  hands.  They  were  quite  silent.  In  a  thicket 
close  by  a  bird  was  making  little  chitterings. 
Presently  Oliver  spoke. 

"  This  is  a  wood  of  dreams." 

"  It  is  as  real  as  life,"  said  Virginia  Garland. 
"  See,  there  are  dead  leaves  rotting  on  the  ground, 
and  up  above  green  leaves.  Presently  they  also 
will  be  dead,  but  others  will  come,  and  the  beauty 
of  life  goes  on." 

"  I  hate  to  think  of  death,"  said  Oliver.  "  Death 
and  pain  are  horrible." 

"  One  must  look  both  in  the  face  without 
flinching.  I  know  what  pain  is.  It  has  been  my 
bedfellow.  One  day  I  shall  meet  the  other.  I 
shall  not  be  afraid," 

Oliver  sat  up,  folding  his  arms  on  his  knees. 

"  Sometimes  I  am  rather  afraid  oi you  ! "  he  said, 
smiling  at  her, 

"  Of  me  ?     I  am  a  frail,  harmless  thing  !  " 

"  You  are  imniensely  strong.  Your  spirit  is 
inflexible." 

"  You  make  me  out  a  hard  woman,"  said  Virginia 
Garland.     "  I  hope  I  have  a  little  charity," 

"  Yes,  you  are  hard,"  said  Oliver.  "  I  believe 
you  would  be  as  hard  as  rock  in  a  sea  of 
temptation.  But  charity  ?  Your  heart  pours  it 
out," 


The  Garden  of  Peace      267 

"Hush!"  said  Miss  Garland.  "You  do  not 
know  the  secrets  of  my  poor  heart.'' 

She  looked  down  on  Oliver  from  her  tree-trunk 
seat,  and  there  was  a  smiling  tenderness  in  her 
eyes. 

"  Tell  me  some  of  them,"  said  Oliver.  "  The 
wood  is  silent,  and  there  are  no  eavesdroppers. 
You  and  I  are  quite  alone  in  the  world." 

She  shook  her  head,  and  said  : 

"  Hark  at  that  bird  on  the  bough.  What  a 
thrilling  note  ! " 

But  Oliver  did  not  listen.  His  eyes  were  fixed 
on  the  woman  who  sat  on  the  fallen  tree.  Her 
smooth  brown  hair  was  just  touched  by  a  ray  of 
light  which  struck  through  the  leaves.  Sitting 
there  with  her  hat  off  and  her  hands  in  her  lap  she 
made  a  charming  portrait. 

She  seemed  to  have  grown  younger  since  he  had 
known  her.  At  his  first  meeting  she  had  seemed  to 
him  almost  middle-aged,  but  afterwards,  and  now, 
he  caught  the  wistful  look  of  a  young  girl  in  her 
face.  She  was  looking  upon  the  ground,  and  he 
saw  how  long  and  soft  were  the  brown  eyelashes 
that  brushed  her  cheek,  and  how  beautiful  was  the 
curve  of  her  neck.  Her  face  had  no  doll-like  pretti- 
ness.  It  was  pale  and  thin,  but  it  reminded 
Oliver  of  one  of  Burne-Jones's  dream-women. 

Sometimes,  it  was  quite  true,  she  frightened  him. 
There  was  something  in  her  eyes  and  in  her 
manner  that  made  it  impossible  for  him  to  adopt 


268     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

that  light-hearted  gallantry  which  came  so  easily 
to  him  with  other  women.  She  took  all  his  words 
seriously,  as  though  they  meant  precisely  what  he 
said,  neither  more  nor  less.  That  was  embarrassing 
to  a  man  who  spoke  often  with  exaggeration  and 
sometimes  thoughtlessly.  She  credited  him  also 
with  ideals  and  principles  of  which  he  could  speak 
glibly  enough,  but  which,  in  his  heart,  he  knew  to 
be  higher  than  his  spiritual  reach. 

He  had  kept  up  the  fiction,  for  instance,  of  a 
deep  interest  in  the  social  condition  of  the  London 
poor.  He  had  spoken  brave  things  about  his 
"quest  of  truth."  He  had  complained  to  her  of 
the  frivolity  and  insincerity  of  modern  society. 
He  had  even  deplored  the  spirit  of  Mammon 
which  had  taken  possession  of  the  nation. 

"  The  money  standard,"  he  said,  "  is  the  measure 
of  modern  life.  Oh,  how  I  hate  and  loathe  this 
greed  of  gold  !  " 

She  agreed  with  him,  with  enthusiasm,  and 
praised  him  for  following  the  path  of  poverty  with 
a  brave  heart,  in  the  pursuit  of  truth  and  beauty. 
That  had  shamed  him.  He  blamed  himself  for 
insincerity.  He  hedged  a  little  to  save  his  own 
conscience,  and  told  her  that,  after  all,  money  in 
good  hands  was  a  great  blessing,  an  immense 
power  for  good.  But  she  hesitated  to  agree  to 
that. 

"  My  father  has  left  me  too  much  for  a  single 
woman,  and  subscriptions  to  charity  lists  are  but 


The  Garden  of  Peace      269 

miserable  means  of  doing  good  in  the  world. 
This  impersonal  charity  is  so  cold  and  unsatis- 
fying." 

After  she  had  told  him  that,  the  thought  of  her 
wealth  haunted  him.  Her  father  had  left  her  too 
much  for  a  single  woman,  she  said. 

There  were  moments  now  when  a  strange 
question  thrust  itself  into  Oliver's  brain.  Had 
Virginia  Garland  fallen  in  love  with  him  ?  He 
tried  to  put  the  question  on  one  side  as  an 
impertinence,  but  it  demanded  an  answer. 

The  first  time  it  had  come  to  him  was  one 
evening  when  he  came  into  her  drawing-room. 
It  was  dusk,  and  the  candles  had  not  been  lighted, 
and  Virginia  was  sitting  with  some  white  needle- 
work in  her  lap.  But  she  was  not  sewing.  Her 
hands  were  still,  and  she  was  staring  out  into  the 
purple  haze  in  the  garden  through  the  open  French 
windows.  She  had  not  heard  him  come  into  the 
room  until  he  spoke  to  her.  Then  she  started 
and  turned  her  head,  and  her  face  was  suffused 
with  a  deep  flush  of  colour. 

"  I  thought  you  were  not  coming  in  this 
evening." 

Her  hand  trembled  a  little  in  his  clasp. 

"  I  have  one  of  my  attacks  of  loneliness,"  she 
said.  "  Sometimes  I  feel  the  most  lonely  creature 
in  the  world.     I  am  glad  you  have  come." 

Her  voice  was  tremulous.  There  was  a  kind  of 
hunger  in  her  eyes  for  a  moment   as  she  looked 


270     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

up  at  him.  Just  for  a  swift  second  it  seemed  to 
Oliver  that  his  presence  had  thrilled  her.  A 
moment  later  she  was  speaking  to  him  in  her 
tranquil  way,  calm  and  matter-of-fact. 

Another  day  they  were  in  the  rose-garden.  She 
was  showing  him  her  most  precious  specimens. 
She  lifted  their  heads  up  in  her  delicate  white 
fingers  with  a  caressing  touch. 

"  When  I  am  gone,"  said  Oliver,  "  I  shall  always 
think  of  you  among  the  roses." 

She  turned  and  drew  in  her  breath. 

"  You  are  not  going  yet  ?  Are  you  tired  of  this 
country  life  ?  " 

Her  anxiety  startled  him,  so  that  for  a  moment 
he  could  not  answer.     Then  he  said  : 

"  I  shall  never  be  tired  of  this  garden.  My 
spirit  will  always  walk  in  it.  But  sometimes  I 
think  I  ought  to  get  back  to  the  bustle  of  the 
town.     I  am  living  too  much  on  your  bounty." 

"  Do  not  say  that.  You  keep  my  cottage  warm, 
and  your  friendship  has  made  the  month  pass 
quickly.  Generally  the  weeks  are  so  long  with 
me." 

"  They  have  been  golden  weeks.  I  shall  never 
forget  the  peace  of  them,  and  this  beauty." 

He  looked  round  the  garden,  at  the  doves  cooing 
on  the  emerald  lawn,  at  the  sun  glinting  on  the 
marble  dial,  at  the  long  cool  shadow  flung  across 
the  grass  from  the  gables  of  the  grey  old  house. 
Then  it  seemed  to  him  that  the  charity  of  this 


The  Garden  of  Peace      271 

lady,  in  whose  cottage  he  lived,  and  who  had 
opened  her  house  and  garden  to  him,  was  a  charm- 
ing idyll,  touched  with  romance.  He  thought 
again  of  the  young  Rousseau,  poor  like  himself, 
with  the  same  temperamental  sensibilities,  who 
for  four  years  had  lived  such  an  idyll  with 
Madame  de  Warens  in  the  sylvan  retreat  of  Les 
Charmettes.  Virginia  Garland  had  given  him 
sanctuary  like  that. 

Her  character  had  a  tranquillity  of  spirit  which 
he  found  soothing.  Yet  she  was  not  always  as 
gentle  as  a  white  dove.  He  saw  her  once  or  twice 
moved  to  quite  a  passionate  anger,  which  took  his 
breath  away. 

The  first  time  was  when  one  of  the  gardeners 
failed  to  do  a  piece  of  work  which  he  had  promised 
to  get  finished  by  a  certain  time.  She  questioned 
him,  and  he  gave  shifty  answers,  and  then  con- 
tradicted her  bluntly. 

Miss  Garland  was  silent  for  a  moment,  and  a 
vivid  flush  of  colour  swept  into  her  face.  Then 
she  drew  herself  up  very  straight,  and  said  in  a 
quiet  voice  : 

"  Why  do  you  lie  to  me  ?  " 

"  It's  the  truth,"  said  the  man  doggedly,  shifting 
from  one  foot  to  another. 

She  struck  the  ground  with  her  stick  sharply. 

"  Go  out  of  my  garden  !  How  dare  you  stand 
before  me  there  and  tell  me  falsehoods  ?  If  I  were 
not  a  frail  woman  you  would  not  have  the  courage. 


272     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

Lying   and   laziness   are   sins    I    do   not    forgive. 
Please  get  your  wages  and  go." 

She  raised  her  stick,  and  pointed  to  the  garden 
gate. 

The  man,  very  red  and  sullen,  looked  up  at  her ; 
but  there  was  so  angry  a  light  in  her  eyes  that 
he  quailed  before  it,  and  slouched  slowly  away. 
When  he  had  disappeared  behind  a  close-cropped 
hedge.  Miss  Garland  lowered  her  stick,  and  the 
colour  fled  from  her  face,  leaving  it  very  white. 

"  That  man  is  a  drunken,  lazy,  lying  old  fellow. 
I  have  had  patience  with  him  too  long." 

She  saw  Oliver's  surprise,  and  seemed  embar- 
rassed, and  said,  "  I  do  not  often  lose  my  temper 
like  this.  Forgive  me.  But  I  cannot  tolerate  lies 
and  deceit.  They  make  my  blood  boil.  I  have 
inherited  that  from  my  father.  He  nearly  killed 
a  man  who  had  lied  to  him." 

Oliver  was  disconcerted  by  this  little  scene.  He 
had  to  revise  his  whole  estimate  of  Miss  Garland's 
character.  This  passion  at  a  trivial  fault  was 
bewildering  and  alarming.  There  were  times 
when  he,  like  the  grubby  old  gardener,  was  apt 
to  prevaricate  with  truth. 

He  began  to  realise,  too,  that  this  gentle  invalid 
lady  was  a  strict  disciplinarian  in  her  house,  and 
that  all  her  servants  were  afraid  of  her.  They 
loved  her,  he  could  see  that,  but  they  went  in  fear 
and  trembling  lest  they  should  displease  her. 

He   saw   her   write   the   word   "  Dust "   on   the 


The  Garden  of  Peace     273 

rosewood  piano  before  a  neat  housemaid  who  went 
quite  white  at  the  silent  rebuke,  and  then  burst 
into  tears.  He  saw  another  maid  tremble  so  that 
a  silver  tray  laden  with  tea-cups  was  in  danger 
of  falling  from  her  hands  because  Miss  Garland 
said  in  a  severe  voice,  "  Mary,  how  often  have 
I  told  you  not  to  let  me  see  you  with  a  dirty 
pinafore  ?  It  is  an  insult  to  my  guests,  and  dis- 
obedience to  me." 

It  was  such  scenes  as  this  that  made  Oliver  use 
those  words  about  her  "inflexible  spirit."  Yet,  like 
all  women,  she  was  complex  and  contradictory  in 
character,  for  when  the  maid  who  had  gone  faint 
at  the  writing  on  the  piano  cut  her  finger  one 
day,  it  was  her  mistress  who  bound  it  up  with  the 
greatest  care  ;  and  when  the  other  girl  suffered 
from  toothache,  Miss  Garland's  sympathy  was  like 
that  of  an  elder  sister.  She  put  her  arm  round 
the  girl's  waist  and  kissed  her  on  the  cheek. 


18 


CHAPTER   XXXIII 
The   Beggar-Man 

The  days  passed,  and  the  weeks,  and  Oliver  seemed 
to  be  drifting  in  a  placid  backwater  of  life,  very 
lazy,  very  sunburnt,  content  to  take  tea  on  Virginia 
Garland's  lawn  with  old  ladies,  to  take  long  walks 
through  Windlesham  to  quiet  old  woodland  villages 
beyond,  and  to  write  in  the  evenings  at  a  long 
novel,  interrupted  by  quiet  pipes  over  his  fireside, 
or  by  playfulness  with  the  girl  Alice,  whose  pretti- 
ness  and  sauciness  still  kept  him  amused. 

But  in  the  first  week  of  his  second  month  in 
Windlesham  a  change  came  over  him,  as  in  the 
weather,  which  after  the  spell  of  sunshine  was  suc- 
ceeded by  rainy  days,  when  the  lane  outside  his 
cottage  was  a  quagmire,  and  when  for  hours  he 
heard  the  dripping  of  wet  leaves  and  the  patter  of 
the  rain-drops. 

The  charm  suddenly  went  out  of  this  country 
life.  The  cottage  seemed  a  prison  to  him,  cramp- 
ing to  body  and  soul.  His  spirits  went  down  to 
zero. 

One  evening,  working  alone,  he  dropped  his  pen 
and  groaned  aloud.  He  had  been  writing  the 
sorriest  trash.  Perhaps  when  it  was  finished  it 
274 


The  Beggar-Man  275 

would  not  be  published.  What  should  he  do 
then? 

In  any  case  what  should  he  do?  In  spite  of 
having  paid  no  rent  and  of  having  lived  largely  on 
the  bounty  of  Virginia  Garland,  he  had  spent  all 
but  one  sovereign  of  the  ten  pounds  he  had  brought 
from  London.  He  was  faced  again  with  direst 
poverty,  and  he  flinched  from  it. 

The  confession  of  failure  would  be  the  worst  to 
bear.  How  could  he  crawl  back  to  London,  to  his 
old  home  in  Denmark  Hill,  and  say,  "  Father,  I  am 
penniless.  Let  me  sit  down  at  your  table  again 
until  the  luck  turns  ?  "  That  would  be  impossible. 
He  would  rather  starve. 

For  an  hour  he  sat  down  before  the  small  grate, 
in  which  a  wood  log  was  smouldering  into  white 
ash.  He  sat  with  his  face  in  his  hands,  thinking 
deeply,  so  that  a  line  was  furrowed  in  his  forehead. 
Then  he  gave  a  long,  quivering  sigh,  and  rising, 
put  on  his  overcoat  and  cap  and  went  out  into  the 
rain.  He  walked  up  to  The  Rookery,  and  in  a  few 
minutes  was  taking  off  his  things  again  in  Virginia 
Garland's  hall. 

"  Has  Miss  Garland  finished  supper  ?  "  he  asked 
the  maid,  and  she  said  that  her  mistress  had  finished 
an  hour  ago  and  was  reading  in  the  library. 

"  You  know  the  way,  sir  ?  " 

Oliver  knew  the  way  quite  well,  and  going  up 
the  oak  staircase  he  opened  a  door  on  the  right  of 
the  first  landing  and  went  inside  the  great  room, 


276     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

which  the  old  General,  Virginia's  father,  had  lined 
with  books  from  floor  to  ceiling. 

The  room,  panelled  in  dark  wood  where  there  was 
space  between  the  bookshelves,  was  dimly  lighted, 
but  a  lamp  with  a  red  shade  shed  it  rays  upon 
Virginia  Garland  at  the  far  end  of  the  library. 
The  two  sheep-dogs  were  sleeping  at  her  feet, 
breathing  stertorously.  She  wore  a  white  gown, 
cut  low  at  the  neck,  and,  sitting  in  a  high-backed 
chair  clasping  its  arms,  with  a  book  in  her  lap,  she 
seemed  to  Oliver  like  a  mediaeval  princess  in  an 
old  ghost-haunted  room. 

He  stood  in  the  shadow  of  the  doorway  for  a 
minute,  and  she  looked  up  and  said  : 

•'  Yes.     Who  is  it  ?  " 

"  It  is  Oliver.     May  I  interrupt  your  reading  ?  " 

"  I  was  not  reading — only  thinking.  But  are 
you  not  working  to-night?" 

"  I  could  not  work.  I  have  been  thinking,  too. 
I  want  to  tell  you  about  my  thoughts." 

He  crossed  over  to  her  and  sat  in  the  chimney- 
corner,  and  clasped  one  knee  with  his  hands. 

"  Not  unpleasant  thoughts  ?  You  look  very 
serious  to-night." 

"  Horribly  unpleasant.  You  see,  I  have  wakened 
up  out  of  my  dream." 

She  asked  him  what  was  the  meaning  of  his 
words.  What  dream  had  he  dreamed  ?  She  put 
the  question  with  a  smile,  as  though  amused  by  his 
romantic  way  of  speech. 


The  Beggar-Man  277 

"  It  has  all  been  a  dream — this  month  or  so.  I 
came  down  from  London  expecting  to  stay  a  week- 
end. I  did  not  know  exactly  why  I  came,  except 
that  something  called  to  me.  I  was  in  difficulties. 
I  had  made  a  mess  of  things.  I  wanted  to  escape. 
Your  letters  seemed  to  tell  me  that  here  I  should 
find  sanctuary.     So  I  came." 

"  Yes.  I  am  glad  you  came,"  said  Miss  Garland. 
"  But  where  are  the  dream  and  the  awakening  ?  " 

"  The  dream  came  when  I  first  saw  you,  and 
when  you  offered  me  your  cottage.  I  have  been 
living  in  a  dream  ever  since.  Those  golden  days 
in  your  garden,  our  walks  together  in  the  woods 
the  quiet  hours  in  this  old  house,  the  utter  peace 
of  life  here,  and  your  friendship — it  has  been  one 
long  dream.  I  have  said  to  myself  a  thousand 
times,  *  You  are  dreaming,  Oliver !  You  are 
dreaming !  One  day  something  will  pinch  you, 
and  you  will  wake  up.' " 

"  I  don't  quite  understand,"  said  Miss  Garland. 
"  Why  should  you  think  it  all  a  dream  ?  What  do 
you  mean  by  the  awakening?  " 

"  The  awakening  has  come,"  said  Oliver,  with  a 
tragic  face.  "  It  was  my  conscience  that  pinched 
me.  To-night  I  woke  up.  To-morrow  I  go  back 
to  London." 

"  Oh,  no !     You  must  not  do  that !  " 

She  leant  forward,  and  put  her  hand  on  his 
sleeve. 

"  Stay  a  little  longer,  Oliver  1     You  have  your 


278     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

novel  to  finish.  Surely  you  must  get  that  done 
before  you  go !  " 

There  was  a  note  of  pleading  in  her  voice,  and 
Oliver  was  thrilled  by  it.  But  he  stared  gloomily 
at  the  hearth-rug,  and  gave  a  slight  groan. 

"  God  knows  I  should  like  to  stay.  But  every 
day  makes  it  more  difficult  to  go." 

She  said  again  in  a  troubled  way  : 

"  I  do  not  understand  !     Why  should  you  go  ?  " 

He  looked  up  at  her,  and  said  : 

"  May  I  speak  frankly  ?  " 

"  Otherwise  not  at  all,"  said  Miss  Garland,  v/ith 
one  of  the  smiles  that  gave  beauty  to  her  face. 

"  Wei],  it  is  like  this.  I  am  a  poor  man.  I  am 
desperately  poor.  But  my  pride  has  come  back. 
I  cannot  go  on  being  a  pauper  at  your  gates  and 
accepting  your  charity.  It  isn't  right.  It  isn't 
good  for  my  peace  of  mind — or  my  peace  of  heart." 

As  he  spoke  the  last  words  he  looked  up  at  her 
again,  and  their  eyes  met.  She  put  out  her  hand, 
and  turned  the  lamp-shade  so  that  her  face  was  no 
longer  illumined. 

"  Are  you  afraid  of  people  talking  ?  Do  you 
mean  that  scandal-mongers " 

She  paused,  and  drew  a  quick  breath,  as  though 
the  thought  had  angered  her. 

"  No,  not  that.  I  believe  there  is  gossip  in  the 
place,  but  that  would  not  hurt  you,  or  me." 

He  was  silent  for  a  little  while,  and  then  said 
rather  passionately : 


The  Beggar-Man  279 

**  Virginia,  don't  you  understand  ?  I  am  so 
poor  that  it  is  not  safe  for  me  to  stay  here.  I  can- 
not live  on  a  woman's  charity,  and  I  dare  not  tell 
her  what  is  in  my  heart,  because  I  am  a  beggar- 
man  at  her  garden-door,  and  not  worthy  to  crawl 
on  my  knees  before  her." 

"Tell  me  what  is  in  your  heart,  Oliver,"  said 
Miss  Garland,  very  softly. 

"  Fear,"  said  Oliver.  "  I  am  afraid  of  the  love 
there.     Because  I  am  poor  and  you  are  rich." 

"  Love?     Did  you  say  love,  Oliver  ?  " 

Miss  Garland  spoke  the  words  with  a  little  timid 
cry,  and  a  wave  of  colour  swept  into  her  face. 

"  I  said  love,"  replied  Oliver,  very  gravely,  in  a 
low  voice. 

Miss  Garland  was  on  her  knees  now.  She  clasped 
his  arms  with  her  thin,  white  hands. 

"  Oh,  do  not  be  afraid,  Oliver  !  Tell  me,  do  you 
mean  that  you  love  me  ?  You  will  give  me  great 
riches  if  you  tell  me — that." 

"  I  tell  you  that,"  he  said. 

"  You  love  me  ?  " 

She  asked  the  question  as  though  the  answer 
would  be  life  or  death  to  her. 

"  I  love  you,"  said  Oliver.  "  That  is  my  confes- 
sion.    That  is  why  I  must  go  away." 

He  looked  very  much  ashamed  of  himself. 

She  laughed,  a  tremulous,  joyful  laugh,  and 
clasped  him  close. 

"  Oh,  my  dear  !  "  she  said.     "  Oh,  my  dear  !     Is 


28o     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

this  true?  I  think  it  is  I  who  am  dreaming 
now." 

"  Perhaps  it  is  a  dream,"  said  Oliver.  "  We  have 
been  walking  in  a  garden  of  love,  you  and  I.  But 
I  must  go  now." 

He  unclasped  her  arms  and  rose  from  his  seat, 
and  paced  into  the  shadows  of  the  room  and  back 
again  into  the  lamp-light.  His  face  was  very  white, 
and  his  eyes  burned  like  coals.  He  stooped  down 
and  kissed  the  woman's  hair,  as  she  still  knelt 
before  his  empty  seat,  with  her  hands  clasped  at 
her  breast. 

"  Forget  my  stupid  words.  The  princess  does 
not  stoop  to  the  pauper.  What  would  the  world 
say  ?  The  beggar-man  must  slink  away  and  hide 
his  love  in  his  rags." 

But  she  would  not  let  him  go,  not  even  to  the 
end  of  the  room.  She  reached  up  to  his  shoulders, 
and  put  her  head  against  his  heart. 

"  My  dear,  it  is  I  who  am  the  beggar.  You 
are  rich — in  health,  in  youthfulness,  in  all  the 
great  gifts  of  life.  I  am  poor  in  body  and  spirit. 
If  you  will  give  me  your  love,  Oliver,  I  shall  be 
lifted  to  a  high  throne." 

That  night  as  they  sat  together,  hand  clasped 
in  hand,  she  told  him  how,  since  his  first  letters 
to  her,  she  had  always  expected  him.  She  had 
felt,  in  a  strange,  mystical  way,  that  one  day  he 
would  come.  That  afternoon  when  he  had  rung  the 
bell  at  her  door   its  jangling  notes  had   startled 


The  Beggar-Man         281 

her,  and  she  thought,  "  That  is  Oliver  Lumley." 
Then  she  stood  face  to  face  with  him,  and  she 
was  scared,  because  she  knew  that  OHver  would 
take  her  heart,  and  perhaps  would  leave  her, 
without  it,  in  greater  loneliness.  Oh,  she  had 
been  very  lonely,  till  he  came ! 

A  score  of  times  she  questioned  him  whether 
he  was  sure  he  loved  her.  It  seemed  incredible. 
For  he  was  young  and  she  was  old.  Several 
times  she  cried  out  in  distress  : 

"  Oliver,  I  am  ten  years  older  than  you  1  I 
should  be  wicked  to  let  you  marry  me." 

But  he  kissed  her  hand,  and  vowed  that  she 
had  the  heart  of  a  child  and  would  never  grow 
old. 

Then  she  told  him  that  he  loved  an  invalid — 
a  poor,  frail  woman,  lame  in  one  leg,  who  would 
be  a  burden  to  him. 

But  he  swore  that  he  would  devote  his  strength 
to  her.  She  should  lean  upon  his  arm  as  they 
walked  along  the  way  together. 

She  wept  a  little  with  joy  at  that,  and  wondered 
why  God  and  Oliver  should  be  so  kind  to  her. 

Then  Oliver  poured  out  his  heart,  and  made 
confession  of  some  of  his  sins,  and  of  his  failure 
and  of  some  of  his  debts. 

"  My  dear,"  she  said,  when  she  had  heard  all 
that  he  told  her,  "  we  must  pay  your  debts 
quickly.  I  will  not  have  my  husband  tortured 
by    any    whisper    of  conscience,    nor    under    any 


282     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

faint  shadow  of  dishonour.  My  poor  boy,  how 
you  must  have  suffered  ! " 

She  rejoiced  that  she  could  wipe  all  that  out 
with  one  stroke  of  her  pen.  In  future  he  would 
not  be  troubled  by  such  squalid  cares.  He 
would  be  free  now  to  write  according  to  his 
highest  ideals  and  not  pander  to  the  popular 
market. 

"  You  will  write  great  books  and  noble  books, 
Oliver." 

Yet  she  reproached  him,  gently  and  tenderly. 

"  You  have  been  weak,  Oliver.  I  wish  you 
had  faced  poverty  with  a  more  masterful  spirit. 
See,  I  tell  you  the  truth,  even  in  these  first  hours 
of  our  love.  You  will  not  be  angry  with  me 
because  I  tell  you  the  truth  ? " 

"  I  ask  for  nothing  but  your  love  and  truthful- 
ness," said  Oliver.  "  I  know  I  have  been  as  weak 
as  water.     But  you  will  teach  me  to  be  strong." 

She  said,  "  Promise  me  one  thing.  Let  us  be 
married  quickly.  I  cannot  wait  for  my  happiness. 
You  see,  I  have  been  lonely  so  long." 

"  I  promise,"  said  Oliver.  "  We  will  be  married 
quickly,  my  dear." 

When  he  walked  to  his  cottage  that  night  he 
seemed  to  be  in  a  dream  again.  "  Thank  the 
stars,"  he  said,  as  he  put  his  hand  upon  the 
garden  gate.     "  The  Luck  has  turned  at  last" 


CHAPTER    XXXIV 

The  Wonderful  News 

Oliver  paid  a  visit  to  London  before  iiis  marriage, 
and  enjoyed  himself. 

He  walked  the  streets  not  as  a  hang-dog 
fellow,  afraid  to  meet  a  creditor  at  every  corner, 
but  as  a  man  who,  after  poverty,  has  come 
into  a  fair  heritage,  so  that  he  may  hold  his 
head  high  and  look  all  men  straight  in  the 
eyes. 

He  had  left  London  as  a  failure.  He  came 
back  as  a  success,  trailing  clouds  of  glory  about 
him.  Even  his  physical  appearance  was  altered. 
He  was  richly  bronzed.  His  lungs  had  been 
filled  for  several  months  with  country  air,  so  that 
his  chest  was  filled  out  and  his  shoulders  were 
squared.  He  walked  with  a  long,  swinging  stride. 
He  had  no  longer  the  tired  eyes  and  drawn  look 
of  a  man  who  keeps  late  hours.  His  eyes  were 
bright  and  keen.  His  face  had  put  on  flesh. 
One  could  not  meet  a  handsomer  fellow  on  a 
long  day's  march.  He  had  such  a  noble,  smiling 
look,  that  when  he  walked  down  Piccadilly  or 
the  Strand  people  turned  to  glance  at  him  and 
went  on  their  way  refreshed  by  the  mere  sight 
283 


284     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

of  a  young  man  so  rich  in  health  and  holding 
his  head  so  high  in  a  troubled  world. 

Miss  Garland  had  paved  the  way  for  his 
triumphant  entry  to  London.  She  had  opened 
an  account  in  his  name  in  one  of  the  Windlesham 
banks,  and  said,  "  My  dear,  let  me  know  that 
you  have  paid  all  your  debts  and  put  yourself 
right  in  the  world.  You  will  want  clothes,  too, 
for  our  marriage  day,  and  pocket-money  for 
your  visits  to  town.  .  .  .  No  ;  you  must  not  be 
proud,  Oliver.  Are  you  not  giving  me  all  your- 
self?" 

That  had  made  things  easy  for  him.  It  had 
given  him  golden  opportunities  for  fulfilling  his 
most  generous  instincts.  Rescued  from  miserable 
poverty,  with  its  degradation,  his  soul  seemed  to 
expand  and  grow,  like  a  plant  taken  from  the 
cellar  into  the  sunlight.  He  was  filled  with  bene- 
volence to  all  humanity. 

His  first  cheque  was  for  fifty  pounds,  made  out 
to  Lady  Katherine  Goldstein.  He  signed  his 
name  with  a  flourish,  and  enclosed  the  slip  of  pink 
paper  with  a  note  : 

"  With  warmest  thanks,  from  Oliver  Lumley." 

Two  days  later  he  received  the  acknowledgment. 
It  was  the  first  time  he  had  seen  Katherine's 
handwriting  since  that  unfortunate  misunder- 
standing. 


The  Wonderful  News     285 

"  Dear  Roly, — 
"  Many  thanks  for  the  cheque.     I  am  so  glad 
to  think  that  you  are  prospering. 
"  Yours  sincerely, 

"  Katherine  Goldstein. 

*'  P.S. — I  have  forgiven  you  for  something  that 
made  me  very  angry.  After  all,  Hfe  is  too  short 
for  stupid  quarrels.     I  remember  our  friendship." 

He  kept  that  letter  in  his  breast  pocket,  though 
when  he  first  read  it  the  sight  of  the  finely  pointed 
handwriting  had  brought  back  remembrances 
which  were  too  emotional.  Staring  at  the  paper, 
Katherine's  face,  her  smile,  the  fragrance  of  her 
hair,  the  faint  echo  of  her  laughter,  her  piquant 
beauty  came  hauntingly  back  to  him.  He  sighed 
like  a  man  who  has  stirred  the  dying  embers  of 
an  old  passion,  and  feels  a  flame  leap  up  to  his 
heart  again. 

"  A  queer  game — this  life,"  he  said  ;  and  with 
that  comment  folded  up  Katherine's  letter  and  put 
it  in  his  pocket. 

He  wrote  other  cheques  with  delightful  ease, 
astonished  at  the  rapidity  with  which  a  man  with 
a  banking  account  may  wipe  out  debts  so  grim 
and  menacing  in  his  days  of  destitution.  Thirty 
pounds  to  his  tailor — it  took  but  half  a  minute 
to  write.  Five  pounds,  ten  pounds,  three  pounds, 
a  guinea  :  as  fast  as  he  could  remember  the  names 
of  his  tradesmen  and  of  club  friends  whom  he  had 


2  86     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

"  touched  "  for  this  small  loan  and  that  the  leaves 
fell  from  his  cheque  book,  and  made  a  pretty 
pattern  on  the  tablecloth  of  his  sitting-room  in 
Myrtle  Cottage. 

"  This  is  all  right  for  Oliver  !  "  said  that  young 
man,  laughing  irresistibly,  and  in  the  greatest 
good-humour  at  the  swift  and  superb  manner  in 
which  he  settled  his  accounts  with  past  history. 
When  he  had  thrust  all  his  letters  into  the  red 
mouth  of  a  letter-box  in  Miss  Garland's  garden- 
wall  he  had  the  feeling  of  a  man  who  has  released 
himself  from  a  pack  of  care,  and  springs  up  un- 
trammelled to  go  singing  on  his  way  to  the 
banquet  of  life. 

On  his  way  to  the  banquet  he  went  to  Denmark 
Hill,  where  his  family  was  supping  on  cold  mutton 
and  bread-and-butter  pudding.  One  line  only  had 
he  sent  them  in  advance,  but  it  seemed  to  contain 
a  miracle : 

"  I  have  the  best  of  news.     I  am  a  rich  man,  and 
I  shall  be  with  you  soon." 

The  hand  of  the  clock  seemed  to  have  been  put 
back  when  the  taxicab  in  which  he  drove  up  to 
them  paused  outside  the  small  villa,  and  when 
Mrs.  Lumley,  who  had  been  the  first  to  hear  it, 
opened  the  front  door  and  called  out  into  the 
darkness,  "  Is  that  you,  Oliver  ?  "  He  sprang  up 
the  steps  to  her  with  a  laugh. 


The  Wonderful  News     287 

"  Here  is  the  prodigal  son.     Back  again  !  " 

In  the  narrow  hall  she  folded  hinn  in  her  arms, 
and  said,  "  My  dearest  boy  !  Oliver,  my  dearest  ! 
You  nearly  broke  my  heart  by  your  silence." 

He  kissed  her  pale  face  on  both  cheeks,  and 
said,  "  It  is  all  right,  mother.  I  am  going  to  give 
you  all  a  good  time.  I  am  going  to  pay  back 
some  of  my  debts." 

His  father  stood  in  the  doorway  of  the  dining- 
room,  holding  a  book  in  one  hand,  and  his  spectacle- 
case  in  the  other.  He  seemed  strangely  ill  at  ease 
at  this  sudden  return  of  his  son,  and  clearing  his 
voice  with  a  little  cough,  said  : 

"  So  you  have  come  back,  Oliver.  What  is  the 
meaning  of  your  mysterious  letter?  How  have 
you  become  rich  ?  " 

He  spoke  as  if  he  were  very  much  afraid  that 
his  son  had  not  obtained  his  wealth  by  honest 
means.  Oliver  seized  him  by  the  hand,  and  put 
it  to  his  lips. 

"  Dad ! "  he  said.  "  Don't  be  scared.  I  haven't 
been  robbing  any  one.  Where's  old  Horace  ? 
Where's  Gallypot  ?  " 

Horace  and  Galatea  were  both  in  the  sitting- 
room.  They  stood  up  at  the  supper-table,  holding 
their  napkins  and  listening  to  the  words  spoken 
in  the  hall.  It  seemed  as  if  they,  too,  believed 
that  Oliver  had  been  guilty  of  some  crime  in 
becoming  rich,  or  as  if  they  were  in  the  presence 
of  a  miracle,  and  were  frightened. 


288     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

"  Oliver,"  said  Galatea,  "  are  you  serious  ?  What 
has  happened  to  you  ?  " 

"  Tell  us  the  news,"  said  Horace.  "  You  are 
like  a  man  who  has  come  back  again  from  the 
dead." 

Oliver  was  rather  taken  aback  by  their  coldness 
and  incredulity. 

"  Well,  you  don't  seem  pleased  to  hear  about  my 
good  luck.  This  is  not  a  cheerful  home-coming ; 
hang  me  if  it  is," 

"  You  are  looking  awfully  brown,  old  boy ! " 
said  Horace,  putting  some  brotherly  warmth  into 
his  voice.  "  What  have  you  been  doing  with 
yourself?" 

"We  should  be  glad  to  hear  about  your  good 
luck,"  said  Mr.  Lumley.  "  Luck  has  been  a 
stranger  to  this  house  for  some  time.  I  may 
say  I  have  never  known  what  luck  was." 

He  rubbed  his  spectacles  with  his  handkerchief, 
and  spoke  the  words  rather  wistfully. 

"  Roly,  darling,  do  not  keep  us  in  suspense ! " 
said  Mrs.  Lumley. 

Oliver's  good -humour  returned  to  him.  He 
could  see  now  that  the  coldness  of  his  family  was 
only  apparent,  and  covered  a  consuming  desire  to 
know  his  news,  and  a  sense  of  mystery  which  had 
led  to  strange  anxieties  and  secret  hopes.  But  he 
teased  them  a  little  longer,  and  asked  them  to 
guess  in  what  way  Luck  had  come  to  him. 
Galatea  said  that  he  must  have  written   a   play 


The  Wonderful  News      289 

and  had  it  accepted  by  Beerbohm  Tree.  Horace 
thought  that  he  must  have  sold  a  serial  story 
to  The  Daily  Mail.  Mr.  Lumley  put  his  guess 
into  the  form  of  a  suspicion,  and  hoped  that  Oliver 
had  not  been  gambling  on  the  Stock  Exchange. 
He  was  of  opinion  that  money  obtained  quickly 
in  this  way  fled  just  as  fast. 

Then  Oliver  laughed  very  quietly,  and  said  : 

"It  is  better  than  all  that.  I  am  going  to 
marry  a  rich  woman.  I  am  going  to  become  a 
man  of  property." 

A  dead  silence  fell  upon  the  family.  The  news 
seemed  to  have  struck  them  dumb. 

Mrs.  Lumley  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"  A  rich  woman  ?  .  .  .  Is  she  a  good  woman, 
Oliver  ? " 

"  More  than  good.     A  saint,  mother." 

"  I  say,  old  boy,"  said  Horace,  "  this  is  rather 
sudden,  isn't  it  ?  You  have  only  been  away  six 
weeks." 

"  It  has  been  a  romance,"  said  Oliver.  "  An 
idyll.     I  could  not  explain  it  to  you 

"  Is  she  pretty  ?  "  asked  Galatea. 

"  She  is  a  dream-woman,"  said  Oliver. 

Mr.  Lumley  shifted  uneasily  in  his  chair. 

"  Dream-women  are  sometimes  rather  dan- 
gerous. ...  In  any  case,  a  wife  with  money  puts 
a  man  in  a  false  position.  ...  I  hope  she  is  not 
an  adventuress." 

Oliver  suddenly  became  violently  angry. 
19 


290     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

*'  Of  all  the  extraordinary  people,"  he  said,  "  my 
own  family  beats  creation.  Anybody  would  think 
I  had  been  robbing  hen-roosts  or  leading  a  life  of 
vice.  Here  I  come  back  full  of  desire  to  lift  you 
out  of  this  shabby  gentility,  to  make  you  relations 
by  marriage  of  an  old  county  family,  to  let  you 
share  my  good  fortune,  and  you  make  remarks 
that  are  deliberately  insulting  to  myself  and  my 
future  wife." 

His  violence  shocked  them.  Mrs.  Lumley  cried 
a  little.  Mr.  Lumley  said  that  he  did  not  mean 
to  say  anything  unkind.  Horace  came  and  gripped 
him  by  the  hand,  and  said,  "  Congratulations,  old 
boy,"  in  a  sepulchral  voice,  and  Galatea  said  that 
no  one  could  be  more  glad  that  he  had  found 
happiness.  So  they  coaxed  him  back  to  good- 
temper,  and  that  evening,  after  the  cold  mutton 
and  the  bread-and-butter  pudding,  he  told  them 
of  his  life  at  Windlesham,  and  of  Myrtle  Cottage, 
and  of  Virginia  Garland. 

Of  Virginia  he  drew  a  beautiful  portrait,  and  his 
voice  thrilled  when  he  spoke  of  his  reverence  for 
her  and  of  her  gracious,  bountiful  character.  Then 
he  described  The  Rookery,  and,  unconsciously, 
exaggerated  its  grandeur  and  the  immensity  of 
its  garden,  so  that  it  might  have  been  a  ducal 
mansion  in  a  noble  park. 

"  All  that  will  be  mine,"  he  said.  "  Virginia  and 
I  will  share  everything  in  common." 

He    forgot,    he    honestly   forgot,    that    he    was 


The  Wonderful  News      291 

bringing  nothing  to  her  but  the  sheets  of  an 
unpublished  story. 

"  My  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Lumley,  "  it  is  all  wonder- 
ful.    But  you  will  be  too  grand  for  us." 

"  Virginia  has  a  beautiful  simplicity.  She  will 
love  you,  mother.  She  would  not  despise  even 
this  little  home.  But  I  hope  we  shall  be  able  to 
make  you  an  allowance,  so  that  you  may  move 
into  a  bigger  house,  in  a  better  neighbourhood — 
Sydenham,  for  example.  It  sounds  so  much 
better  than  Denmark  Hill." 

"  We  shall  be  your  poor  relations,"  said  Galatea, 
with  just  a  trace  of  bitterness.  "  I  shall  be  fright- 
fully afraid  of  Miss  Garland,  Roly." 

"  She  will  be  Mrs.  Oliver  Lumley  when  you 
know  her ! " 

Oliver  smiled  at  his  sister  in  the  happiest  frame 
of  mind  now,  and  with  an  imagination  excited  by 
his  generous  visions. 

That  night  he  heard  some  news  which  made 
him  very  sorry  for  poor  "Gallypot"  as  he  called 
his  sister.  It  seemed  that  while  he  had  been 
away  she  also  had  been  living  in  a  romance. 
Charles  Hardy  had  been  very  kind  to  her,  and  she 
had  been  to  ever  so  many  theatres  with  him,  and 
he  had  made  a  habit  of  spending  his  evenings, 
when  not  otherwise  engaged,  at  the  little  house  in 
Denmark  Hill.  Then  one  night,  when  he  was 
taking  Galatea  home  in  a  hansom  cab,  he  asked 
her  to  be  his  wife.     Of  course  that  made  her  the 


292     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

happiest  girl  on  earth,  for  she  had  loved  Hardy  at 
first  sight.  There  was  no  difficulty  at  home,  and 
the  news  of  their  daughter's  engagement  had  been 
a  real  joy  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Lumley. 

Then,  a  week  ago,  a  thunderbolt  had  fallen 
which  had  shattered  Galatea's  house  of  dreams. 
She  and  Charles  Hardy  had  already  made  their 
plans  for  the  future,  and  had  arranged  to  live  in  a 
beautiful  flat  in  High  Street,  Kensington.  Hardy 
had  already  bought  a  gate-post  table  as  the  first 
instalment  of  his  household  furniture,  and  had  his 
eye  on  a  suite  of  dining-room  chairs. 

But  one  night  he  came  to  the  Lumleys'  house 
very  pale  and  agitated,  and  they  knew  at  once 
that  he  had  bad  news  to  tell  them. 

It  was  very  bad  indeed.  The  newspaper  on 
which  Charles  Hardy  had  been  earning  a  hand- 
some salary  had  changed  hands.  There  was  a 
new  proprietor,  and  he  lost  no  time  in  dismissing 
members  of  the  old  staff  in  order  to  bring  in  his 
own  men.  It  is  a  well-known  game  in  Fleet 
Street,  and  has  brought  many  good  journalists  to 
misery.  Hardy  was  one  of  the  first  to  come  under 
the  guillotine. 

"  Your  salary  is  too  high,"  said  the  new  editor 
of  the  new  proprietor.     "  If  you  like  to  take  half 
will  keep  you  on." 

•  I  would  rather  starve  !  "  said  Hardy. 

"  Please  yourself,"  said  the  new  editor,  very 
calmly. 


The  Wonderful  News     293 

So  from  twelve  pounds  a  week  Hardy  was 
brought  down  swiftly  to  Nothing  a  week,  which  is 
not  enough  for  a  young  man  who  has  just  become 
engaged  to  get  married. 

After  the  first  shock  he  had  faced  the  situation 
with  pluck  and  a  sense  of  humour.  He  kissed 
Galatea's  tears  away  (though  he  could  not  cure 
her  red  eyes),  and  hustled  round  the  other  news- 
paper offices.  But  they  were  "  full  up."  All  they 
could  promise  was  "  to  bear  him  in  mind  " — a  vague 
and  hopeless  pledge.  Now  Hardy  was  spending 
his  days  in  the  Club,  waiting  for  something  to  turn 
up,  writing  London  letter  notes  for  the  provincial 
papers,  and  cursing  all  newspaper  proprietors  with 
ingenious  and  carefully  chosen  epithets.  Even 
his  sense  of  humour  was  wearing  rather  thin. 

Oliver  was  distressed  at  this  domestic  mis- 
fortune. 

"  I  am  sorry  you  ever  got  engaged  to  the  fellow," 
he  said  to  Galatea.  "  Journalism  is  always  a  pre- 
carious job,  and  in  any  case  Hardy  was  not  a 
brilliant  match  for  you.  I  give  you  fair  warning, 
Galatea,  I  shan't  tolerate  a  long  engagement.  If 
he  does  not  get  a  good  place  again  pretty  soon, 
you  must  break  with  him.  I  can't  have  my  pretty 
sister  losing  all  her  chances  in  life  out  of  mistaken 
fidelity  to  an  impecunious  pressman.  When  you 
come  down  to  Windlesham  there  are  plenty  of 
county  men  who  would  be  glad  to  fall  in  love 
with  you." 


294     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

Galatea  was  flamingly  indignant  with  him.  She 
would  be  true  to  Hardy  till  death,  she  said,  and 
then  burst  into  tears. 

Oliver  patted  her  hand. 

"That  is  all  right,  I  admire  you  for  saying 
that.     But  after  a  time  the  romance  will  wear  off." 

On  the  following  night  he  met  Hardy  himself 
at  the  club  and  was  very  sympathetic  to  him, 
seeing  how  dejected  he  was.  But  he  gave  him  a 
few  words  of  warning. 

"  Look  here,  my  lad,  I  can't  have  my  sister's 
heart  broken  by  a  hopeless  engagement.  You 
understand  that,  don't  you  ?  " 

Hardy  eyed  him  very  coolly. 

"  Don't  go  putting  on  damned  supercilious  airs 
with  me,  Roly.     I  am  not  a  sponger  on  women." 

He  had  his  hands  in  the  pockets  of  a  Norfolk 
jacket,  and  looked  down  at  Oliver  from  his  six- 
foot  height  with  a  deliberately  contemptuous 
stare. 

"  Do  you  mean  that  as  an  insinuation  ?  "  asked 
Olivier,  with  a  sudden  flame  of  anger  on  his  face. 

"  Just  as  you  like  to  take  it  "  said  Hardy. 

Then  suddenly  his  mood  changed,  and  he  swung 
round  and  grasped  Oliver's  arm. 

"  Look  here,  don't  let's  quarrel.  I  hope  to  be 
your  brother-in-law  one  of  these  days,  old  man. 
But  I  am  feeling  very  sick  with  myself  just  now, 
and  I've  got  a  bitter  taste  in  my  mouth." 

Oliver  accepted  his  apology  with  some  dignity 


The  Wonderful  News      295 

and  reserve,  but  Hardy's  words  rankled.    He  would 
never  quite  forget  them,  nor  forgive  them. 

Yet  he  thrust  them  out  of  his  mind  as  often  as 
possible  that  night  at  the  club,  when  he  stood  in- 
numerable drinks  to  friends  who  made  a  hero  of 
him  because  he  was  so  mysteriously  "  flush "  of 
money  and  so  splendidly  bronzed  and  so  quick  to 
laugh  at  their  jests.  It  was  a  bachelor's  night  for 
Oliver,  before  his  marriage.  After  the  silence  of 
the  country,  and  the  society  of  old  ladies,  and  the 
quiet  hours  with  Virginia  Garland,  all  this  noise 
and  rowdiness  of  free-spoken  men  was  invigorating. 
When  he  left  the  club  in  the  early  hours  of  the 
morning  and  went  out  into  the  streets  on  his  way 
to  an  hotel  in  the  Strand,  the  spirit  of  London  called 
to  him,  the  throb  of  it  set  his  pulse  beating  to  an 
old  tune.  For  a  little  while  he  wandered  about 
the  lamplighted  streets,  watching  the  taxicabs 
flashing  past  with  swift  glimpses  of  men  and  women 
in  evening  dress,  going  home  after  late  adventures 
in  the  world  of  pleasure.  He  stood  on  a  "  save-me- 
life  "  in  the  centre  of  the  golden  glamour  of  Piccadilly 
Circus.  He  was  thinking  of  a  grey  old  house  in 
the  depths  of  the  country,  of  a  dark  lane  ankle- 
deep  in  mud,  of  the  hushed  fields  under  their  cloak 
of  darkness,  and  of  the  owls  hooting  plaintively 
round  a  thatched  cottage.  He  shivered  a  little  at 
the  thought  of  that  country  solitude.  For  a  young 
man  with  an  active  brain  and  a  restless  heart  it 
would  be  like  premature  burial. 


CHAPTER  XXXV 
A  Warning 

Before  going  back  to  Windlesham  Oliver  met 
Lady  Katherine.  It  was  in  the  very  middle  of 
Piccadilly  Circus,  where  he  had  stood  on  the  "  save- 
me-life."  She  was  in  her  own  car,  which  had  drawn 
up  in  a  block  of  traffic.  She  saw  him  first  as  he 
was  crossing  the  road  and  he  heard  her  voice 
calling  him. 

"  Roly  !  ...  Mr.  Lumley  !  " 

At  the  sound  of  that  voice  he  turned  sharply, 
and  was  nearly  caught  in  the  tide  of  traffic,  which 
was  released  by  the  hand  of  the  policeman  "  on 
point." 

"Jump  in,"  said  Katherine  Goldstein,  and  then 
when  he  had  obeyed,  she  said,  "  You  have  just 
escaped  sudden  death,  you  know.  That  cab  shaved 
you  by  half  an  inch." 

It  had  happened  so  suddenly  that  Oliver  could 
hardly  believe  that  he  was  actually  sitting  by  the 
side  of  this  lady,  driving  towards  Bond  Street.  It 
surprised  him  as  much  as  if  he  had  suddenly  found 
himself  on  a  magic  carpet  in  Bagdad.  He  hadn't 
the  least  idea  what  to  say  to  her,  and  murmured 
something  about  the  weather,  but  she  immediately 
296 


A  Warning  297 

began  asking  questions,  one  after  the  other,  so  that 
he  had  time  to  think. 

"  Where  have  you  been  all  this  time  ?  What 
was  the  name  of  the  place  you  wrote  from  ? 
Windlesham  ?  Where's  ^A^indlesham  ?  Have  you 
had  luck  with  your  writing  ?  I  should  be  glad  to 
know  that." 

He  said  simply  and  suddenly : 

"  I  am  going  to  be  married." 

He  had  an  idea  that  this  would  startle  the  pretty 
lady,  that  it  would  be  a  revenge  upon  her  cruelty, 
that  she  would  be  sorry  to  know  that  he  had  healed 
his  heart  so  quickly  after  the  wounds  she  had  given 
him. 

But  Katherine  Goldstein  was  delighted,  it  seemed. 

"  How  splendid ! "  she  said,  and  clapped  her 
hands  together.  "  It  will  do  you  all  the  good  in 
the  world.  Now  you  will  have  to  work  !  I  am 
so  very,  very  glad,  Oliver.  You  wanted  a  spur, 
because  you  were  lazy,  you  know." 

"My  future  wife  is  a  rich  woman,"  said  Oliver 
drily. 

"  A  rich  woman  !  " 

Katherine  was  really  startled  now,  and  the 
sparkle  went  out  of  her  eyes. 

"  Roly  !     How  dangerous  !     How  fatal ! " 

It  was  his  turn  to  get  startled.  She  spoke  the 
words  so  tragically  that  they  alarmed  him. 

"  Dangerous  ?     Fatal  ?     How's  that  ?  " 

"  My  dear  boy,"  she  said,  "  for  Heaven's  sake 


298     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

stop  my  car  and  let  us  get  out  and  have  tea  some- 
where. Then  I  can  talk  to  you  seriously,  instead 
of  going  to  those  appalling  Bernsteins.  I  want  to 
save  you  if  I  may." 

Oliver  stopped  the  car  at  a  tea-shop  at  the  top 
of  New  Bond  Street,  and  when  they  sat  at  a  quiet 
tea-table  in  the  corner,  Katherine  put  her  elbows 
on  the  table  and  faced  him  squarely  and  said,  "  I 
am  going  to  talk  to  you  like  a  grandmother." 

"  Quite  impossible,"  said  Oliver;  "you  look  like 
my  younger  sister." 

He  thought  she  looked  extraordinarily  pretty. 
She  was  wearing  a  white  muslin  dress  and  a  big 
black  hat  with  a  silver  cord  round  the  crown. 

"  I  am  old  in  wisdom,  and  you,  Oliver,  are  quite 
one  of  the  most  foolish  young  men  it  is  my 
privilege  to  know."  She  paused,  and  said  thought- 
fully, "  And  I  know  some  ! " 

"  Thanks  !  "  said  Oliver. 

"  Not  at  all.     I  speak  the  truth." 

She  picked  pieces  of  sugar  out  of  a  silver  basin 
with  a  little  pair  of  tongs  and  dropped  them  back 
again. 

"  Oliver,  for  the  sake  of  our  friendship," — she 
blushed  a  little  here — "  and  some  very  pleasant 
memories — unhappil^y  interrupted " 

"  Most  unhappily,"  said  Oliver. 

"  Most  unhappily,"  said  Katherine.  "  I  must 
warn  you  against  marrying  a  rich  wife." 

"  I  shall  be  glad  to  know  your  reasons." 


A  Warning  299 

"  I  will  tell  you.  They  may  be  put  briefly. 
Do  you  not  know  that  when  a  penniless  man 
marries  a  rich  woman  he  becomes  her  slave  ? 
Don't  you  know  that  one  day  she  will  turn  round 
and  reproach  him  and  say,  '  You  are  spending  my 
money.  I  am  keeping  you.  I  am  the  absolute 
mistress  of  this  house.  You  must  ask  me  for 
every  sixpence  you  want  to  pay  for  tobacco,  or 
a  shave.'  Roly,  think  of  that !  You  will  lose  your 
manhood  and  your  spirit  of  independence.  You 
will  never  be  master  of  your  wife,  and  unless  you 
are  master  you  will  be  utterly  miserable  and 
crushed." 

"  Where  do  you  get  all  this  knowledge,  dear 
lady  ? "   asked  Oliver,  very  calmly. 

"  Here,  and  here,"  said  Katherine ;  and  she  put 
her  hand  to  her  left  side. 

"  Do  I  understand  you  to  mean  your  heart  ?  " 
said  Oliver. 

"  Oh,  you  may  jeer.     But  I  have  a  heart." 

She  was  silent  for  a  moment,  and  then  said 
very  seriously, "  It  is  bad  enough  for  a  poor  woman 
to  marry  a  rich  man.  There  are  times  when 
she  revolts  against  her  position  of  absolute  de- 
pendence. Oh,  there  are  times  when  she  would 
give  much  to  have  a  little  money  of  her  very  own, 
not  to  be  a  beggar  in  fine  clothing,  and  to  be 
able  to  spend  a  few  guineas  of  her  own,  on  private 
interests  of  her  own,  without  rendering  an  account 
to  her  man.     It  is  rather  sickening  always  to  be 


300     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

a  pampered  slave.  But  for  a  man  it  is  humiliating. 
It  is  intolerable." 

Oliver  was  more  disturbed  than  he  cared  to 
show.     But  he  answered  lightly: 

"Virginia  will  never  humiliate  me." 

"Virginia?     Is  that  her  name?     It  is  pretty." 

"Virginia  Garland,"  said  Oliver. 

"  It  is  a  countrified  name,"  said  Katherine.  "  It 
sounds  very  sweet." 

She  asked  questions  about  his  future  wife,  but 
he  did  not  answer  in  much  detail.  In  that  tea- 
shop,  sitting  opposite  Katherine  Goldstein,  Oliver 
began  to  feel  rather  depressed  and  restless.  There 
stirred  in  him  .some  of  that  old  emotion  which 
had  been  awakened  when,  on  adventures  with 
Katherine,  they  had  been  alone  together  like  this. 
Her  charm,  her  brightness,  her  interest  in  him, 
opened  old  wounds. 

He  heard  some  of  her  words  like  a  man  in  a 
dream. 

"  I  hope  you  will  be  very  happy,  Oliver.  For- 
give me  for  having  been  too  candid.  .  .  .  My 
warning,  anyhow,  was  impudent." 

She  had  to  go  now ;  and  he  picked  up  her  big 
black  muff  and  stroked  it  a  moment. 

"  Devilish  funny  thing,  life,"  he  said.  "  It's 
all  a  silly  gamble,  don't  you  think  ?  One  has  to 
muddle  on,  taking  the  risks." 

"  It's  all  right  if  you  play  the  game,"  said 
Katherine. 


A  Warning  301 


That  was  a  favourite  phrase  of  hers  ;  and  when 
she  was  in  her  big  car,  and  the  footman  put  a 
rug  round  her  before  springing  up  by  the  side  of 
the  chauffeur,  she  gave  her  hand  to  Oliver  and 
smiled  at  him,  and  said,  "  Play  the  game,  Roly !  " 
Then  she  bent  her  head  towards  him  so  that  her 
hair  touched  his  forehead  as  he  stood  with  one 
foot  on  the  step. 

"  I  have  forgotten  our  foolish  quarrel,  and  Rudolf 
has  forgiven.  Tell  the  man  to  drive  to  Portland 
Place.     Good  luck  ! " 

Oliver  told  the  man,  and  lifted  his  hat  as  the 
car  slipped  off  silently  into  the  stream  of  traffic. 
He  walked  slowly  away,  wondering,  very  thought- 
fully, at  a  jig-saw  puzzle  of  hearts. 


CHAPTER   XXXVI 
Husband  and  Wife 

Oliver  Lumley  and  Virginia  Garland  were 
married,  very  quietly,  at  St.  Ursula's,  Windlesham. 
Very  quietly  as  regards  ceremony  and  the  number 
of  invited  guests,  but  not  without  public  interest. 

There  was  a  crowd  of  Windlesham  people  out- 
side the  church  doors,  who  raised  a  cheer  when  the 
bride  was  helped  down  from  her  carriage  by  the 
bridegroom,  and,  leaning  upon  his  arm,  smiled  upon 
them  rather  shyly. 

Miss  Garland  wore,  according  to  The  Windlesham 
Gazette,  "a  going-away  dress  of  dove-grey  cash- 
mere, trimmed  with  silk  braid,  and  a  superb  bouquet 
of  Malmaison  carnations." 

The  bridegroom,  also  according  to  The  Windle- 
sham Gazette,  "  was  immaculately  attired  in  a  grey 
frock -suit  and  a  glossy  silk  hat,  which  harmonised 
in  a  remarkable  way  with  the  subdued  and  deli- 
cate costume  of  the  lady — so  well  known  for  her 
generosity  and  benevolence  in  this  ancient  market 
town,  of  which  his  worship  the  mayor  is  so  dis- 
tinguished an  ornament." 

Among  the  other  sightseers  at  the  church  door, 
some  of  whom  afterwards  sat  in  the  back  pews, 
302 


Husband  and  Wife        303 

was  Alice  Featherfew,  to  whom  Oliver  had  told 
fairy  stories  and  other  contes  drolatiques  in  between 
her  sweeping  and  dusting  and  cooking  in  Myrtle 
Cottage.  Her  face  was  smudged  with  the  trace 
of  tears,  and  she  looked  unhappy. 

Oliver  went  into  the  quietude  of  the  church  with 
Virginia  Garland  on  his  arm,  and  passed  up  the 
nave  to  the  altar  rails,  where  they  knelt. 

All  Virginia's  old  ladies  were  in  the  church. 
The  Dowager  Countess  of  Buntingford  had  a  new 
bonnet  of  lilac  silk  above  her  white  hair.  Miss 
Purchase  had  a  black  bonnet  with  little  sequins, 
which  shook  as  though  she  were  trembling  with 
emotion  or  shaking  with  mirth.  The  Honourable 
Mrs.  Perceval  was  a  brilliant  figure  at  the  top  of 
the  church  in  a  sky-blue  dress.  She  turned  as 
Oliver  and  Virginia  passed  on  their  way,  and 
Oliver  caught  the  smile  in  her  eyes.  As  he  knelt 
at  the  altar  he  wondered  what  that  smile  meant. 
She  seemed  to  be  frankly  amused  at  their  mar- 
riage. Other  ladies  from  the  country-houses  in 
and  around  Windlesham  were  in  the  church,  and 
several  middle-aged  and  elderly  gentlemen,  who 
were  their  husbands  or  fathers — retired  officers, 
country  squires,  doctors,  and  solicitors.  Oliver 
was  pleased  at  this  assembly.  He  would  be  in  the 
best  society  in  Worcestershire.  These  people  all 
belonged  to  "The  Quality." 

Virginia's  choir  were  singing  now  to  the  woman 
who  had  trained  their  voices.     Their  anthem  rose 


304     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

softly  above  the  organ  notes.  Oliver  wondered 
why  the  girl  Alice  was  not  in  her  place.  He 
thought  of  all  kinds  of  things  as  he  knelt  down 
beside  the  woman  who  in  a  few  minutes  would 
be  his  wife.  He  thought  of  a  funny  scene  which 
had  taken  place  when  he  was  a  boy.  He  had 
been  playing  truant  from  school,  and  was  just  on 
his  way  to  a  swimming-bath,  when  he  came  face 
to  face  with  his  form-master,  who  was  supposed  to 
be  ill  in  bed  with  influenza.  What  was  his  name? 
Higson,  Smithson,  Gibson?  For  a  moment  or 
two  Oliver  was  troubled  because  he  could  not  re- 
member the  name  of  his  old  schoolmaster.  Then 
he  was  bothered  about  Miss  Purchase's  bonnet. 
What  a  ridiculous  bonnet  it  was !  With  all  those 
sequins  shaking !  .  .  .  What  had  Katherine  said  ? 
Dangerous  and  fatal  ?  How  pretty  she  had  looked 
in  her  big  black  hat !  She  had  perfect  taste.  And 
she  was  very  kind.  She  had  always  been  very  kind 
to  him.  ...  As  kind  as  Livvy,  only  in  a  different 
way.  Poor  little  Livvy !  As  good-hearted  as  she 
was  high,  and  had  a  rough  life  too.  It  was  amusing 
when  old  Horace  dropped  in.  What  was  that  song 
Doris  had  sung  ?     How  did  the  absurd  words  go  ? 

"Horace  was  a  curate, 

Horace  was  so  shy  .      ." 

He  could  not  remember  the  rest  What  rhymes 
with  curate?  There  didn't  seem  a  word  in  the 
whole  language  to  rhyme  with  curate. 


Husband  and  Wife        305 

He  was  sorry  that  no  members  of  his  family 
were  here.  His  mother  was  ill  with  influenza,  and 
Galatea  was  nursing  her,  and  neither  his  father  nor 
Horace  had  been  able  to  leave  their  offices. 

The  clergyman  came  down  to  the  altar  rails, 
and  Oliver's  wandering  thoughts  came  back  to  the 
place  and  time.  He  was  about  to  be  married. 
Virginia  was  kneeling  by  his  side.  He  stole  a 
glance  at  her.  Her  face  was  upturned.  The  light 
streaming  through  a  lancet  window  fell  upon  it, 
giving  it  a  glow  of  colour.  It  was  a  spiritual  face, 
and  so  tender  and  meek. 

Oliver's  heart  gave  a  great  beat.  Oh,  he  would 
love  her.  He  would  be  good  to  her.  His  lips 
moved  in  inarticulate  prayer.  He  prayed  that  he 
might  be  worthy  of  this  dear  lady,  that  he  might 
be  stronger,  that  he  might  play  the  game.  It  was 
not  a  bad  prayer  for  Oliver  Lumley. 


20 


CHAPTER   XXXVII 

A  Country  Gentleman 

There  was  a  small  reception  afterwards  in  The 
Rookery,  and  quaint  old  broughams  and  pony- 
chaises,  and  one  or  two  smart  dogcarts  crowded 
the  drive. 

Virginia — she  was  Virginia  Lumley  now — sat 
to  receive  her  guests,  because  she  was  tired,  and 
Oliver  stood  by  her  chair.  Several  times  she 
turned  her  head  to  look  up  at  him  with  a  glance  of 
beautiful  love. 

Lady  Buntingford  was  quite  right  when  she  said, 
"  My  squirrel,  you  look  very  happy  to-day.  You 
look  uncommonly  proud  of  that  handsome  boy 
of  yours.     I  am  afraid  you  will  spoil  him  mightily." 

She  shook  her  old  head  at  Oliver. 

"  I  thought  there  was  mischief  in  those  black 
eyes  when  I  first  saw  them  in  the  garden." 

She  kissed  Virginia  on  her  forehead. 

"  Prince  Charming  came  to  wake  the  Sleeping 
Beauty." 

She  took  one  of  Oliver's  hands  and  patted  it. 

"  I  think  you  will  be  kind  to  our  dear  Virginia. 
I  think  we  can  trust  you  to  take  care  of  her." 

Then  she  bent  forward  and  whispered  to  him : 
306 


A  Country  Gentleman     307 

"  Of  course  I  am  frightfully  jealous.  You  jilted 
me  shamefully." 

She  gave  a  silvery  laugh,  and  said,  "  I  am  always 
happy  at  a  wedding.  It  warms  my  sentimental 
old  heart." 

The  old  lady  had  given  a  handsome  present  to 
Virginia.  It  was  a  necklace  of  pearls  which  had 
once  been  worn  round  the  white  throat  of  Queen 
Elizabeth,  who  had  left  it  behind  at  Buntingford 
House  as  a  gift  for  the  beautiful  Margaret  Bunting- 
ford,  who  had  been  one  of  her  maids  of  honour. 
Virginia  wore  the  pearls  now,  and  the  old  lady 
touched  them  and  said,  "  May  you  have  as  many 
blessings,  my  dove,  as  there  are  pearls  in  this  rope, 
and  as  many  years  of  happiness.  I've  counted 
'em.     Seventy-two." 

"  By  that  time  our  dear  Virginia  will  be  a  great- 
grandmother,"  said  Miss  Purchase  with  a  shrill 
little  laugh.  "  At  least  I  hope  so,"  she  added, 
with  a  look  which  brought  a  blush  to  the  cheek  of 
Mrs.  Oliver  Lumley. 

"  Of  course  the  children  did  not  deceive  my 
sharp  eyes,"  continued  Miss  Purchase.  "  When 
I  saw  them  sitting  in  the  woods  together  one  day  I 
said  to  myself,  'There  will  be  a  wedding  in  Windle- 
sham,  or  I'm  a  Dutchman.'  " 

"  You  prying  old  lady!"  cried  Mrs.  Perceval  gaily. 
(She  had  not  been  invited  to  the  reception,  but 
came  as  "one  of  Miss  Garland's  fondest  friends.") 
"  Now  when  /  heard  of  Mr.  Lumley  living  in  Myrtle 


3o8     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

Cottage,  so  close  to  the  Rookery  wall,  and  knew 
that  he  came  so  often  to  Virginia's  house  and 
garden,  I  suspected  nothing.  It  never  occurred  to 
me  for  a  moment  that  Romance  had  come  to 
Windlesham  !  Of  course  little  whispers  were  going 
about " 

"  Ah  !  "  said  Miss  Purchase  grimly,  "  I  heard 
them.  All  the  whispers  come  to  my  ears  pretty 
quick,  I  can  tell  you.  There  is  nothing  goes  on 
in  or  about  Windlesham  without  my  knowledge, 
Mrs.  Perceval. 

The  sequins  in  her  black  bonnet  shook  in  an 
agitated  manner,  and  she  looked  at  Mrs.  Perceval 
as  though  she  knew  a  good  deal  about  that  lady 
herself. 

But  Mrs.  Perceval  laughed  in  the  greatest  good- 
humour. 

"  If  we  have  anything  to  conceal  we  must  all 
hide  from  you^  dear  Miss  Purchase." 

She  turned  to  Oliver  and  said,  "  You  will  have 
to   be  very  careful,  Mr.  Lumley.      You    have  no 
idea  how  many  vigilant  eyes  are  upon  our  lives 
and    characters.      It  is  most   dangerous,  I  assure' 
you." 

"  I  hope  I  may  not  have  anything  to  hide,"  said 
Oliver.     "  That  is  the  best  policy,  isn't  it  ?  " 

He  spoke  rather  priggishly,  but  he  had  resented 
a  trace  of  insinuation  in  Mrs.  Perceval's  speech. 

He  was  glad  when  the  guests  had  gone  and 
when  he  sat  alone  with  his  wife. 


A  Country  Gentleman     309 

"  Oh,  my  dear  husband  !  "  she  said  then.  "  How 
can  I  thank  God  for  this  happiness  ?  " 

She  slipped  down  upon  her  knees  and  put  her 
arms  about  him,  as  on  the  night  when  she  had 
confessed  her  heart  to  him. 

"  I  can  hardly  believe  that  I  am  your  wife  really 
and  truly.  You  are  so  young,  such  a  boy,  darling, 
and  I  am  so  much  older.  Do  you  know,  I  feel 
a  little  afraid." 

"  Afraid  ? " 

"  Afraid  that  you  will  get  tired  of  me,  and  of 
the  quiet  life  here." 

She  put  her  hand  up  to  his  head  and  drew  it 
down  a  little. 

"  Have  you  no  fear  of  that,  Oliver  ?  Do  you 
think  you  will  always  love  me  ?  " 

"  You  are  my  dear  wife,"  said  Oliver.  "  I  pray 
that  I  may  be  worthy  of  you." 

They  did  not  start  upon  their  honeymoon  until 
the  next  day.  On  that  wedding-night  Oliver  sat 
alone  for  a  little  while  in  the  dining-room.  The 
candles  made  pools  of  light  upon  the  oak  table  and 
glinted  on  the  silver  and  glass.  It  was  a  large, 
old-fashioned  room,  panelled  in  dark  wood.  The 
portraits  of  some  of  Virginia  Garland's  ancestors, 
old  Generals  in  the  Peninsular  War,  ladies  of  the 
Georgian  period,  with  white  sloping  shoulders  and 
oval  eyes,  looked  down  upon  him.  He  sat  at  the 
head  of  the  table  in  a  bii;'  chair  with  the  crest  of  the 
Garlands — a  boar's  head — carved  on  the  back  of  it. 


3IO     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

He  was  a  country  gentleman  now,  and  the  master 
of  this  house.  As  he  smoked  a  cigar  he  saw  scenes 
out  of  his  old  life  through  curling  smoke-wreaths 
— the  sitting-room  in  Rosemary  Avenue,  with  its 
threadbare  furniture,  his  room  in  Barton  Street, 
Westminster,  himself  shabby,  with  frayed  trouser- 
ends,  borrowing  half-crowns  from  Horace.  He 
had  got  away  from  that  poverty-stricken  life.  He 
looked  round  the  big  dining-room,  and  gave  a 
deep  sigh  of  satisfaction,  and  spoke  a  word  or  two 
aloud. 

"  Well  done,  Oliver  ! "  he  said,  as  though  he  had 
made  a  good  catch  in  the  cricket-field. 


CHAPTER   XXXVIII 

The  Unveiled  Soul 

It  was  October  when  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Oliver  Lumley 
came  back  to  The  Rookery  from  a  tour  in  Italy, 
and  the  Worcestershire  woodlands  were  in  all  their 
glory  of  gold  and  russet.  In  Virginia's  garden 
leaves  were  falling  after  the  first  night-frost,  but 
her  gardener  swept  and  swept,  so  that  when  his 
mistress  came  home  the  green  carpet  of  the  lawn 
and  the  gravel  paths  showed  no  trace  of  autumn's 
decay.  Sunshine  lay  upon  the  grey  old  walls  of 
the  house  and  glinted  on  the  window-panes  with 
their  white  sashes.  Behind  in  the  high  beech-trees 
the  rooks  were  cawing  a  drowsy  welcome. 

Virginia  was  glad  to  be  home  again.  She  was 
tired  after  travelling.  She  had  exerted  more 
strength  than  she  could  spare,  so  that  Oliver  should 
see  as  much  as  possible.  They  had  gone  together 
to  many  picture-galleries,  to  many  old  churches 
and  classical  antiquities,  and  there  had  been  times 
when  she  could  have  almost  fallen  from  fatigue,  and 
when  her  lameness  became  more  painful.  But  she 
hid  this  weariness  from  Oliver,  and  tried  to  keep 
pace  with  his  energy. 

Only  once  or  twice,  when  she  leaned  heavily  on 
311 


312     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

his  arm  and  was  more  than  usually  pale,  did 
he  notice  that  anything  was  amiss  with  her. 
But  she  had  scared  him  in  Florence  when  she  was 
ill  for  a  week,  owing  to  the  great  heat  and  her 
over-exertion.  She  lay  in  a  little  white  bed  in  a 
room  with  gauze  window-curtains  and  green 
shutters,  which  did  not  keep  out  the  sun-baked  air, 
which  seemed  to  put  warm  fingers  about  her  throat 
to  stifle  her.  She  would  not  let  Oliver  sit  long  by 
her  bedside,  holding  her  hand,  but  sent  him  out  to 
enjoy  himself. 

"  You  must  see  everything,"  she  said.  "  It  will 
be  so  good  for  your  work.  You  must  store  your 
mind  with  new  impressions." 

So  he  went  out  alone  and  explored  the  beauties 
of  Florence,  and  at  night,  when  Virginia,  as  he 
believed,  would  be  asleep  (though  really  she  lay 
awake  waiting  for  him),  he  visited  the  theatres  or 
sat  outside  cafes  watching  the  Florentine  women 
and  the  foreign  visitors,  while  the  music  of  stringed 
orchestras  throbbed  into  the  stillness  of  an  Italian 
night,  with  its  translucent  darkness  and  pale-blue 
sky,  in  which  stars  shone  like  jewels.  Oliver 
amused  himself,  but  sometimes  felt  too  lonely. 
At  the  tables  outside  the  cafes  were  gay  people, 
laughing,  whispering,  making  love  together.  Beau- 
tiful women  with  lazy,  lustrous  eyes  smoked 
cigarettes  or  fluttered  fans  around  him.  Good- 
looking  Englishmen  or  smart  little  Italians  were 
having  a  good  time  with  them. 


The  Unveiled   Soul        313 

There  were  adventures  to  be  had  in  Florence 
without  much  seeking.  Romance  lurks  in  its  half- 
lights  and  in  its  shadows.  Oliver  would  have  been 
glad  now  and  then  to  follow  the  trail  of  an  adven- 
ture. The  laughter  of  the  women  thrilled  him. 
He  was  young  and  this  was  Italy,  and  all  around 
him  was  the  sense  of  amorous  opportunities.  But 
when  he  went  back  rather  late  at  night  to  Virginia 
and  found  her  still  awake — how  white  her  face 
looked  and  how  wistful  her  eyes ! — he  was  glad 
that  he  had  remembered  his  wife. 

"  How  sweet  the  old  home  looks  !  "  said  Virginia 
when  they  were  back  again  at  The  Rookery. 
"  Do  you  know,  Oliver,  I  think  I  shall  never  go 
abroad  again.  It  is  far  too  tiring,  and  the  heat 
and  the  dust  are  almost  unbearable." 

"  Never  is  a  long  time,"  said  Oliver,  laughing  at 
her.  "  Having  tasted  foreign  travel,  I  want  more 
of  it.  But  I  agree  that  the  old  Rookery  tempts 
one  to  be  a  stay-at-home." 

"  Now  we  must  settle  down  to  work,"  said 
Virginia.  "  It  is  a  long  time  since  you  have  done 
any  writing,  dear  heart." 

"  Writing  ! "  said  Oliver.     "  Oh,  Lord  ! " 

He  groaned  at  the  thought  of  it. 

"  I  think  I  shall  never  get  into  the  mood  again. 
To  sit  down  to  those  foolish  stories  once  more — 
that  sentimental  trash  !  " 

"  But  you  are  going  to  write  your  big  book  now," 
said  Virginia.     "  You  have  not  forgotten  that  ?  " 


314     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

He  smiled. 

"  I  had  almost  forgotten." 

Then,  seeing  the  look  of  anxiety  in  her  eyes,  he 
said,  "  I  am  going  to  have  a  try,  anyhow." 

But  it  was  some  time  before  he  began  to  have  a 
try.  As  he  explained  to  his  wife,  it  was  difficult 
to  settle  down  into  the  collar  after  such  a  change 
in  his  life,  and  those  Italian  wanderings.  Besides, 
he  wanted  the  first  months  of  their  married  life  at 
home  to  be  unspoiled  by  the  necessity  for  torturing 
his  brain  for  a  plot.  (He  had  abandoned  that 
half-finished  story  at  which  he  had  worked  in 
Myrtle  Cottage.)  He  wanted  to  enjoy  her  love, 
to  soak  himself  in  the  spirit  of  the  old  house 
and  garden,  to  explore  the  country  around,  and 
to  get  himself  accustomed  to  the  life  of  a  country 
gentleman  before  sitting  down  doggedly  to  hard 
work.  When  he  once  started  he  would  work  like 
the  very  dickens. 

"  That  is  right,"  said  Virginia.  "  I  want  you 
to  work  hard.  I  want  you  to  write  something 
worthy  of  you,  something  good  and  noble,  to  help 
the  world  on." 

Oliver  laughed  and  kissed  his  wife's  hand. 

"  My  dear,  you  hope  great  things  of  me  !  It 
will  be  difficult  for  me  to  rise  to  the  height  of 
your  ideals.     They  are  tremendously  exalted." 

"  Aim  high,  Oliver.     Always  aim  high." 

Oliver  was  beginning  to  know  his  wife  pretty 
well.     It  took  some  time  for  no  one  may  pretend 


The   Unveiled  Soul        315 

to  know  the  character  of  a  woman  on  the  first  day 
of  marriage.  Then  he  knows  her  only  according 
to  a  portrait  painted  in  his  imagination,  idealised, 
and  coloured  by  his  own  desires  and  expectations. 
As  the  days  pass  the  real  woman  appears,  the 
little  secrets  of  her  heart  are  revealed,  the  fine 
shades  of  her  temperament,  the  convictions  which 
are  an  essential  part  of  her  character,  not  to  be 
changed  by  argument  nor  circumstances,  her 
prejudices,  superstitions,  and  faith.  Danger  signals 
appear,  teaching  a  man  to  be  careful  of  blundering 
that  way.  He  begins  to  know  the  limitations  of 
her  character,  and  how  far  he  may  go  before  he 
reaches  the  boundary  of  her  toleration  or  of  her 
imagination.  By  accident  or  experiment  he  touches 
some  of  her  nerves  and  sets  them  quivering.  In 
the  thousand-and-one  incidents  of  daily  life  he  sees 
the  woman's  spirit  unveiled.  And  sometimes  he  is 
startled,  or  shocked,  or  made  afraid. 

Oliver  knew  now  that  Virginia  Garland  had 
other  qualities  besides  gentleness  and  charity. 
Only  those  would  have  been  rather  cloying  and 
sickly.  In  spite  of  her  ill-health  (and  she  was 
never  strong),  she  had  a  practical  and  active  mind, 
and  a  spirit  of  orderliness  which  was  sometimes 
rather  troublesome  to  him.  Tidiness  was  almost 
a  passion  with  her.  She  could  not  bear  to  see  a 
thing  out  of  its  place  or  a  room  disarranged. 
They  had  little  quarrels  about  that,  or  rather  she 
rebuked  him,  and  he  laughed  at  her  for  her  prim- 


3i6     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

ness — because  he  was  never  tidy,  and  could  hardly 
go  into  a  room  without  leaving  it  somewhat  littered 
with  his  newspapers  and  letters,  and  match-boxes 
and  cigarettes.  If  he  took  a  book  down  from  a 
shelf  he  was  sure  to  leave  it  lying  face  downwards 
on  a  sofa  or  table.  When  he  came  in  from  a  walk 
he  would  fling  his  cap  on  to  the  nearest  chair. 

"  I  see  that  I  shall  have  to  train  you,"  said 
Virginia  more  than  once,  laughing,  not  without 
vexation.    "  You  have  been  shockingly  brought  up." 

He  promised  to  mend  his  ways,  but  a  certain 
slovenliness  was  in  his  nature,  and  he  could  not 
conform  to  this  "  old-maidishness,"  as  he  called  it, 
chaffingly,  to  his  wife. 

Nor  was  he  very  amenable  to  the  ordered 
discipline  of  her  household.  Virginia  was  an 
early  riser  and  sat  down  to  the  breakfast-table  at 
eight  o'clock.  Oliver,  who  had  been  a  lie-a-bed  in 
London — so  that  often  he  heard  Big  Ben  booming 
eleven  times  before  he  rubbed  the  sleep  out  of  his 
eyes — found  an  eight-o'clock  breakfast  a  Spartan 
ordeal.  Often  he  sat  up  late  reading  by  the  fire- 
side long  after  Virginia  had  gone  to  rest,  and  he 
was  full  of  yawns  and  weariness  when  the  maid 
tapped  at  the  door  next  morning  at  a  quarter-past 
seven.  Time  after  time  he  came  down  late  to 
breakfast,  to  encounter  Virginia's  reproachful  eyes. 
Once  she  spoke  quite  sharply  to  him. 

"  Oliver,  I  must  insist  upon  your  being  punctual 
at  meals.    The  servants  are  becoming  demoralised." 


The  Unveiled  Soul        317 

"  The  servants  must  adapt  themselves  to  my 
little  ways,  dearest,"  said  Oliver,  cutting  off  the  top 
of  an  egg  very  neatly. 

"Isn't  that  rather  selfish?"  asked  Virginia. 
"  For  my  sake,  then,  I  ask  you  to  come  down  in 
time.     You  see  the  tea  is  cold." 

"  Oh,  I  am  sorry  !  "  said  Oliver.  "  Forgive  me, 
dearest." 

She  forgave  him  easily  enough  when  he  expressed 
his  contrition,  forgave  him  laughingly,  and  said 
that  she  would  never  be  able  to  teach  him  method 
and  order.  Yet  she  taught  him  enough  to  make 
him  afraid  of  offending  wantonly,  and  to  make 
him  conceal  small  faults  of  forgetfulness  or  thought- 
lessness which  he  knew  would  hurt  her.  Once  she 
found  him  stooping  down  to  brush  away  with  his 
handkerchief  some  cigarette-ash  which  he  had  let 
fall  on  to  the  drawing-room  carpet.  He  blushed 
crimson  at  being  discovered  in  this  act  of  humility. 

Frail  as  she  was,  Virginia  had  a  strong  will 
underneath  her  gentle  and  quiet  ways.  We  have 
seen  how  her  servants  were  afraid  of  displeasing 
her.  Oliver  himself  became  conscious  of  his  wife's 
will,  compelling  him,  with  a  silent  and  mysterious 
force,  putting  a  sense  of  discipline  upon  him.  Not 
by  a  hairbreadth  did  she  alter  the  routine  of  the 
household  to  suit  his  more  erratic  habits.  Never 
once  did  she  moderate  a  single  principle  or  ideal, 
although  in  their  fireside  conversations  he  chaffed 
her  sometimes  as  being  old-fashioned  or  "  a  pretty 


3i8     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

Puritan,"  or  austere  to  the  verge  of  intolerance. 
He  became  aware,  in  a  semi-conscious  way,  that 
there  was  a  solid  rock  of  principle  in  Virginia's 
character  against  which  he  would  break  himself  if 
he  were  to  come  up  against  it.  From  her  father — a 
sturdy  old  general  who  had  served  most  of  his  time 
in  India — she  had  inherited  certain  maxims  which 
had  become  woven  into  the  texture  of  her  nature. 

"  Tell  the  truth  always,  though  it  cuts  like  a 
sharp  knife.  Never  tolerate  a  liar,  though  he  be 
your  best  friend." 

"  Be  brave.  Courage  is  a  part  of  truth.  To 
bear  pain  silently,  to  lose  all  that  one  loves  best 
without  a  whimper,  to  face  death  without  flinching, 
and  life  with  a  smile,  is  the  supreme  test  of  a  brave 
man  or  woman." 

"  Never  be  weak  for  the  sake  of  being  amiable. 
Never  forgive  a  sin  which  is  not  atoned.  Punish- 
ment must  go  before  forgiveness." 

"  Do  not  surrender  God  to  the  enemy  for  the 
sake  of  peace." 

Virginia  remembered  those  words  of  her  father, 
and  repeated  them  to  Oliver  as  part  of  her  child- 
hood's creed. 

"  They  are  hard  words,"  said  Oliver.  "  A  man 
who  acted  on  them  always  would  be  as  cruel  as  a 
devil." 

"  My  father  was  not  cruel,"  said  Virginia.  "  He 
was  the  kindest-hearted  man,  and  devoted  to 
animals  and  children." 


The  Unveiled  Soul        319 

"Yes,  but  thwart  him,"  said  Oliver,  "and  he 
would  show  a  heart  of  steel." 

"  True  as  steel  and  strong  as  steel.  Those  are 
good  qualities,  Oliver." 

"  I  would  rather  have  a  weaker  man  with  more 
pity  and  more  tolerance  for  frailty.  Even  lying  is 
not  so  black  a  sin.  Sometimes  it  is  caused  by 
sheer  weakness,  and  sometimes  by  the  desire  to 
please." 

Virginia  was  shocked  by  those  words. 

"  Dear  heart,"  she  said,  "  all  evil  has  its  roots  in 
lying  and  deceit." 

In  such  conversations  as  that  Oliver  learned  to 
know  his  wife,  and  always,  though  they  did  not 
agree  on  many  problems  of  life,  her  words  left  him 
with  a  new  sense  of  reverence  for  a  spirit  higher 
and  stronger  than  his  own. 

Yet  he  could  not  quite  understand  her  dual 
nature  of  strength  and  gentleness,  of  pride  and 
humility,  of  courage  and  nervousness.  Those 
complexities  in  her  character  were  continually 
surprising  him.  He  knew,  for  instance,  that  she 
dominated  him  by  her  will-power,  and  that  he 
could  not  influence  nor  alter  her  character  or 
convictions  by  any  argument  or  moral  pressure. 
Yet  he  knew  also  that  she  loved  him  with  extra- 
ordinary devotion,  that  she  clung  to  him  for  pro- 
tection, that  she  was  wistful  and  sad  when  he  left 
her  for  more  than  an  hour  or  two,  and  that  she 
hungered  for  his  caresses  and  endearing  words. 


320     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

Often  when  he  looked  up  from  a  book  or  a 
newspaper  he  would  find  her  eyes  fixed  upon  him, 
dreamily,  as  though  the  sight  of  him  filled  lier 
with  quiet  joy.  If  he  walked  across  the  lawn,  he 
knew  that  her  eyes  followed  him.  If  he  came  to 
her  suddenly  and  took  her  unawares,  her  face, 
rather  sad  in  repose,  would  suddenly  light  up 
with  a  look  of  shining  gladness. 

In  the  evenings  she  was  happy  to  rest  her  head 
on  his  shoulder  while  he  was  reading  or  smoking. 
She  had  pretty  words  of  love  for  him,  such  as  that 
"  Dear  heart,"  so  often  on  her  lips.  Often  she  would 
put  her  hands  upon  his  shoulders  and  say,  "  You 
are  good  to  look  at,  Oliver.  I  am  very  proud  to 
have  such  a  handsome  boy  for  a  husband."  Never 
did  she  lose  her  sense  of  wonderment  that  she 
who  had  come  to  believe  that  she  would  die  an 
old  maid  should  have  won  this  prize  of  life,  this 
joy  of  married  love. 

"  Oh,  my  dear,"  she  said,  again  and  again,  "  I 
feel  afraid  of  my  own  happiness." 

Once  when  she  was  doing  needlework  (her  hands 
were  seldom  idle)  Oliver  happened  to  see  a  tear 
splash  upon  the  white  linen. 

He  went  across  to  her  and  touched  her  hair  with 
his  lips. 

"  Why  are  you  crying  ?     Are  you  unhappy  ?  " 

"  No,"  she  said,  wiping  her  wet  lashes  and 
laughing  at  her  own  emotion.  "  I  am  crying 
because  I  am  so  happy.     How  stupid  ! " 


CHAPTER   XXXIX 
Poor  Relations 

Before  Oliver  settled  down  to  work  he  had  his 
mother  and  sister  to  stay  at  The  Rookery,  but 
before  they  came  he  sent  in  advance  a  cheque  for 
twenty  pounds,  so  that  they  might  come  well 
dressed,  and  in  a  style  worthy  of  him  now  that  he 
was  a  country  gentleman.  He  had  already  been 
very  generous  to  his  family.  He  made  his  father 
a  monthly  allowance  to  help  with  the  household 
expenses,  which  were  heavier  now  that  they  had 
moved  (on  his  advice)  from  Rosemary  Avenue  to 
a  larger  house  on  Streatham  Hill.  He  was  so 
generous  indeed  that  Virginia,  who  had  made  over 
her  cheque-book  to  him,  was  startled  by  the 
amount  of  money  he  had  spent  in  a  few  months. 

"  My  dear,"  she  said,  "  you  must  be  careful,  you 
know.     My  income  is  not  elastic." 

She  pointed  to  certain  items  in  the  pass-book. 

"  What  are  these  names  ?  They  are  not  local 
tradesmen,  are  they  ?  Fifteen  pounds.  What  was 
that,  Oliver  ?  " 

Oliver  .was  for  a  moment  or  two  rather  embar- 
rassed. He  coughed  slightly  and  said,  "They 
were  some  old  debts  of  mine   that  came  in  un- 

21  321 


322      Oliver's  Kind  Women 

expectedly.     To  tell  the  truth,  I  had  utterly  for- 
gotten them." 

"  But,  Oliver,  you  told  me  that  you  had  paid  all 
your  debts  before  our  marriage." 

"  Yes.     I  believed  that  was  so.     I  had  forgotten 
these  wretched  things." 
She  looked  very  serious. 

"  You  gave  me  your  word  of  honour  that  you 
had  paid  everything." 

"  My  dear  girl,"  said  Oliver,  rather  irritably, 
"  do  you  want  me  to  repeat  the  words  again  ?  I 
had  forgotten  these  things." 

"  But  you  should  not  have  forgotten." 
She  said  that  very  decidedly,  and  he  avoided 
her  eyes  as  she  stood  before  him  with  the  bank- 
book in  her  hand. 

"  I  hope  you  have  not  forgotten  others,"  she  said, 
in  a  rather  distressed  voice.  "  Can  you  be  sure 
of  that,  Oliver?" 

"  Fairly  sure,"  said  Oliver. 
"  But  you  must  be  quite  sure." 
Her  voice  was  tremulous  now. 
"  I    do   wish    you   were    not   so   careless   about 
money  matters,     I  hate  the  very  idea  of  debt." 

That  little  breeze  blew  over,  in  the  usual  way. 
Oliver  put  his  arms  around  his  wife's  waist  and 
kissed  her,  promising  that  no  other  debt  should 
poke  up  its  ugly  head  to  scare  her. 

When  his  mother  and  sister  came  he  was 
delighted    with    their    appearance,    and    Galatea 


Poor  Relations  323 

especially  was  a  pride  to  him.  She  was  charmingly 
dressed,  with  great  taste  and  simplicity,  so  that  she 
looked  prettier  than  he  had  ever  seen  her  before. 
She  had  obtained  a  fortnight's  holiday  from  the 
office  and  did  not  have  typist's  headache  or 
jangled  nerves  while  she  was  at  Windlesham.  But 
she  was  a  little  sad  (the  sadness  touched  her  face 
with  a  new  refinement),  for  Charles  Hardy  was 
still  out  of  a  "job"  in  Fleet  Street,  and  was 
earning  a  precarious  living  as  a  free-lance,  so  that 
all  thoughts  of  marriage  were  postponed.  Oliver 
whispered  to  her  one  evening  that  she  had  better 
look  out  for  another  husband,  and  he  brought  over 
two  young  gentlemen  from  Georgian  houses  in  the 
High  Street,  with  the  obvious  intention  of  provid- 
ing Galatea  with  an  agreeable  choice.  But  Galatea 
was  rather  silent  and  haughty  with  both  the  young 
men,  who  on  their  side  were  a  little  ill  at  ease  with 
the  dark-haired  girl  who  responded  in  mono- 
syllables to  their  conversational  efforts.  So  Oliver's 
plan  failed,  but,  notwithstanding  that,  he  enjoyed 
the  visit  of  his  mother  and  sister  and  took  great 
trouble  to  give  them  a  good  time — putting  all 
thought  of  work  entirely  on  one  side. 

The  Dowager  Countess  of  Buntingford  fell  in 
love  at  once  with  Galatea,  and  invited  them  all 
to  dinner.  It  was  unfortunate  that  Virginia  was 
too  tired  to  go,  but  Oliver  drove  his  mother  and 
sister  over  to  Buntingford  House,  and  saw  for  the 
first  time  the  faded  glories  of  that  ancient  mansion 


324     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

where  Queen  Elizabeth  had  once  slept  on  a  Royal 
progress,  and  where  Rupert  had  once  dined  with 
a  party  of  his  cavaliers  on  the  way  to  Worcester. 

Old  Lady  Buntingford,  in  a  black  silk  dress  and 
lace  shawl,  looked  like  one  of  the  ghost  ladies  of 
the  house  as  she  sat  in  a  great  leather  arm-chair, 
with  the  red  light  of  a  log  fire  in  a  deep  chimney- 
place  glowing  upon  her  silver  hair  and  beautiful 
old  parchment  face.  The  only  drawback  to 
Oliver's  pleasant  evening  was  his  mother's  habit 
of  saying  "  My  lady "  to  the  old  Countess,  as 
though  she  were  her  housekeeper  or  one  of  the 
servants. 

There  were  tea-parties,  also,  at  Miss  Purchase's 
house  in  the  High  Street,  and  at  the  Vicar's  house 
next  to  St.  Ursula's,  and  Virginia's  drawing-room 
resounded  with  the  laughter  of  women,  with  the 
high-pitched  voices  of  the  old  ladies,  and  with  the 
tinkle  of  tea-cups,  on  many  afternoons  during  that 
fortnight  when  Oliver's  mother  and  Galatea  were 
staying  at  The  Rookery.  Oliver  enjoyed  himself 
immensely,  for,  as  the  one  young  man  among 
these  dear,  old-fashioned  women,  he  received 
flattering  homage. 

His  mother  could  not  quite  believe  in  the  reality 
of  it  all.  It  seemed  to  her  utterly  strange  and 
bewildering  that  her  boy  Oliver  should  be  the 
master  of  such  a  great  house,  and  the  part-owner 
of  so  much  splendour.  It  seemed  to  her,  as  she 
confessed  to  him,  that  they  were  all   staying  in 


Poor  Relations  325 

an  expensive  boarding-house,  from  which  they, 
and  he,  would  return  to  a  more  humble  sphere 
of  life. 

Oliver  was  tremendously  amused  at  that  idea, 
and  laughed  heartily. 

"  Mother,"  he  said,  "  you  see  I  have  kept  my 
promise.     I  have  raised  the  family  fortunes." 

"  Yes,  my  dear  Roly,"  said  Mrs.  Lumley.  "  It 
is  all  very  queer." 

She  sighed,  and  said  rather  timidly  : 

"  I  wish,  dear,  you  did  not  owe  quite  so  much 
to  your  wife." 

"  That  is  a  stupid  idea,"  said  Oliver  rather 
sharply.  "  A  husband  and  wife  share  all  things  in 
common." 

When  Mrs.  Lumley  and  Galatea  had  to  go  back 
Oliver  made  them  each  a  present.  To  his  mother 
he  gave  a  cheque  for  five  pounds,  and  into 
Galatea's  hand  he  slipped  a  sovereign — "  to  buy 
you  a  hat,"  he  said.  To  his  annoyance,  Galatea 
refused  to  take  it. 

"  I  don't  think  it  is  right,  Roly.  It  is  Virginia's 
money,  and  she  has  been  so  generous  to  us 
already." 

"  Please  yourself,"  said  Oliver.  "  All  you  people 
are  so  devilish  haughty." 

His  mother  kissed  him  on  both  cheeks,  and  was 
much  moved  at  saying  good-bye. 

"  My  poor  boy !  You  are  verj'  young  to  be  a 
husband.     But  you  are  happy,  and  have  a  good 


326     Oliver's   Kind  Women 

wife,  Oliver.  I  think  my  prayers  have  been 
answered." 

"  You  do  not  seem  quite  sure,  mother.  You 
seem  a  little  doubtful  about  it  all." 

Mrs.  Lumley  sighed. 

"  Marriage  is  a  great  adventure,  dear." 

Doing  her  needlework  at  home  she  had  thought 
over  the  difficulties  of  life.  She  had  brooded  over 
the  meaning  of  things,  and  had  obtained  some 
knowledge  that  is  gained  by  disappointment  and 
drudgery  and  love. 

When  they  had  gone  Oliver  felt  lonely.  The 
leaves  had  fallen  from  the  trees  now,  and  darkness 
set  in  early. 

"  Dear  heart,"  said  Virginia,  "  you  must  write 
your  book  now.  You  have  been  idle  long  enough. 
Oh,  yes,  I  insist." 

So  Oliver  shut  himself  up  in  the  library  and 
began  to  work. 


CHAPTER   XL 
The  Broken  Image 

Oliver  did  not  work  like  the  very  dickens.  With 
the  best  intentions  in  the  world,  he  found  it  very- 
difficult  to  write  a  book  which  would  fulfil  Vir- 
ginia's ideals,  and  be  worthy,  not  only  of  a  man  of 
letters,  but  of  a  country  gentleman. 

He  thought  out  vaguely,  and  in  a  general  way 
(leaving  the  details  for  the  inspiration  of  the 
moment),  a  rather  ambitious  and  sweeping  plot. 
It  centred  round  a  young  man  of  great  wealth 
who  desired  to  reform  the  world.  But  first  he  had 
to  obtain  knowledge,  and  learn  the  secrets  of  the 
human  heart  in  high  places  and  in  low.  He  was 
to  wander  about  Europe  at  first  (starting  in  Paris), 
meeting  strange  adventures  on  the  way,  and  then 
live  for  awhile  in  the  under-world  of  London,  where 
he  would  come  face  to  face  with  tragedy  and  awful 
squalor.  Finally,  by  a  scheme  involving  several 
millions  and  a  combination  of  philanthropic  effort, 
he  would  establish  a  central  bureau,  with  branches 
in  every  capital,  for  the  relief  of  destitution  in  its 
most  piteous  forms,  and  as  a  kind  of  agency  for 
the  healing  of  broken  lives. 

It  cost  Oliver  considerable  brain-racking  to  get 
327 


328     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

that  plot  into  something  like  shape,  and,  although 
he  made  copious  notes,  a  month  or  two  passed 
before  he  wrote  Chapter  I.  on  the  top  of  a  blank 
page.  From  time  to  time,  also,  it  was  essential,  as 
he  explained  to  Virginia,  that  he  should  get  some 
relaxation  for  his  body  and  brain — otherwise  he 
would  be  stale  before  the  story  began — and  he 
made  several  trips  (a  week-end  in  Paris,  a  fortnight 
in  London,  and  shorter  dashes  to  the  great  city  and 
back),  in  order  to  get  "  atmosphere." 

"What  does  'atmosphere'  exactly  mean?"  asked 
Virginia  anxiously.  "  Don't  you  think  it  is  rather 
a  waste  of  time  and  money  ?  That  week-end  in 
Paris  was  most  expensive." 

"I  am  sorry,"  said  Oliver,  "but  I  must  get  atmo- 
sphere. Otherwise  my  book  is  hopeless.  I  must 
visualise  things.  You  have  to  get  your  facts  right 
first,  and  then  bring  your  imagination  into  play." 

"  Do  as  you  think  best,"  said  Virginia  ;  "  but  I 
shall  be  so  glad  when  you  have  made  a  really  good 
start  with  the  book." 

He  made  several  false  starts,  and  then  went  to 
tea  with  the  Honourable  Mrs.  Perceval. 

He  had  got  into  the  habit  of  going  to  tea,  and, 
sometimes  to  supper,  with  that  lady  rather  fre- 
quently, because  she  lived  in  an  old-fashioned  house, 
low  and  rambling,  three  miles  from  Windlesham,  on 
the  Worcester  road,  so  that  it  made  a  pleasant  walk 
— not  too  long,  and  not  too  short — when  he  wanted 
to  shake  off  the  megrims. 


The  Broken  Image       329 

It  was  almost  by  accident  that  he  met  her  the 
first  time,  at  the  end  of  his  walk.  He  had  stopped, 
it  is  true,  to  look  up  at  her  house,  but  he  had  not 
expected  to  see  her  reclining  on  the  veranda  in  a 
pink  frock  and  an  easy-chair.  She  must  have 
seen  him  coming,  for,  when  he  stopped  outside  her 
gate,  she  called  out  to  him  : 

"  Good  afternoon,  Mr.  Lumley !  How  kind  of 
you  to  call  on  me — ^just  when  I  was  feeling  bored 
unto  death." 

After  that  he  had  to  go  through  her  garden  gate 
and  renew  his  acquaintanceship.  So  he  stayed  to 
tea,  and  on  his  way  home  was  surprised  to  remem- 
ber how  gay  and  brilliant  he  had  been  in  her  com- 
pany. Of  course,  she  was  an  arrant  flirt,  he  could 
not  deny  that,  for  she  used  her  eyes  in  the  most 
impudent  way,  and  was  very  daring  in  her  conver- 
sation, but  she  had  certainly  a  keen  sense  of 
humour,  and  a  gift  of  repartee,  and  an  amusing 
candour  which  was  rather  refreshing  to  him. 

She  told  him,  among  other  things,  that  her 
heart  beat  in  sisterly  sympathy  with  him.  She 
pitied  him  exceedingly,  and  might  almost  suggest 
(if  he  were  not  a  married  man),  that  they  should 
hold  hands  and  shed  tears  together. 

"  In  Heaven's  name,  why?  "  asked  Oliver. 

*'  Because  we  both  come  from  the  great,  gay  city 
to  spend  a  married  life  in  this  rustic  desolation. 
Oh,  it  is  a  living  burial !  .  .  .  The  dreary  winter ! 
The  dullness !     The  utter,  utter  boredom  !  .  .  .  I 


330     Oliver's  Knid  Women 

can  only  keep  myself  alive  by  quarrelling  with  my 
husband.  He  is  so  delicate,  poor  dear,  that  he 
cannot  and  will  not  live  in  London.  There  again 
Fate  has  dealt  harshly  with  both  of  us.  We  are 
both  married  to  invalids.  Surely  there  is  some 
mystic  union  between  us,  Mr.  Lumley  ? " 

It  appeared  that  Mrs.  Perceval's  invalid  was  a 
soldier  husband  who  had  been  severely  wounded 
in  the  South  African  War,  and  was  now  a  helpless 
cripple.  Oliver  met  him  one  evening,  after  dinner. 
He  was  a  good-looking  man  of  thirty-five  or  so, 
with  a  bronzed  face  and  grey  hair  ;  a  silent  man, 
who  regarded  his  wife  with  a  curious  watchfulness. 
She  quarrelled  with  him  continuously  and  vivaci- 
ously, though  he  answered  in  monosyllables,  or 
merely  with  a  shrug  of  the  shoulders.  They  played 
bridge  that  evening,  with  another  Windlesham  man, 
and  Oliver  lost  two  pounds,  to  the  great  amuse- 
men  of  his  hostess,  who  said  : 

"  What  will  dear  Virginia  say?  " 

Oliver  did  not  find  it  convenient  to  tell  Virginia 
of  this  loss,  but  she  was  distressed  because  her 
husband  seemed  to  like  the  company  of  the  Perce- 
vals. 

"  I  try  not  to  listen  to  scandal,"  she  said,  "  but  I 
cannot  help  remembering  a  most  unpleasant  story 
about  Mrs.  Perceval  and  a  young  curate.  You 
would  please  me  very  much,  Oliver,  if  you  avoided 
anything  like  a  friendship  with  her." 

"  It  is  not  a  question  of  friendship,"  said  Oliver. 


The  Broken  Image        331 

"  But  I  must  study  people's  characters.  A  literary 
man  ought  not  to  lead  a  hermit  life." 

Virginia  sighed,  and  a  look  of  anxiety  crept  into 
her  eyes,  but  she  did  not  say  any  more  about  the 
matter.  She  only  hoped  that  Oliver  would  respect 
her  wish.  She  watched  him  with  an  increasing 
sense  of  disappointment  and  uneasiness.  It  was 
evident  that  he  was  getting  into  a  restless,  dispirited 
mood.  Sometimes  he  was  quite  irritable  with  her, 
and  spoke  sharply. 

The  truth  was  that  when  the  winter  came,  bring- 
ing darkness  and  white  mists  which  crept  out  of 
the  woods  like  ghost  legions,  and  the  melancholy  of  a 
countryside  with  naked  trees  above  their  rotting 
leaves,  Oliver  became  moody  and  bored  with  his 
life.  The  intense  quietude  of  Windlesham  made 
him  yearn  for  the  glare  and  bustle  of  London  life. 
He  missed  its  theatres,  its  seething  crowds,  its 
continual  distractions.  The  society  of  elderly  ladies 
did  not  satisfy  him.  His  active  brain  needed  a 
more  exciting  form  of  social  intercourse.  He 
seemed  to  have  exhausted  most  topics  of  con- 
versation with  Virginia,  and  was  often  silent  in 
her  company  when  they  sat  alone  together  in  the 
winter  evenings. 

He  joined  the  Conservative  Club  in  the  High 
Street,  and  spent  a  good  deal  of  his  time  with  local 
squires  and  solicitors  and  clergymen's  sons,  playing 
billiards  or  cards,  and,  without  telling  Virginia,  he 
often  walked  the  three  miles  along  the  Worcester 


332     Olivers  Kind  Women 

road  to  spend  an  hour  or  two  with  the  Percevals. 
He  did  not  tell  Virginia,  because  she  would  have 
been  distressed,  and  he  hated  to  distress  her. 

But  Mrs.  Perceval  amused  him.  It  was  always 
a  duel  of  wit  with  her,  and  she  sharpened  his 
intellect.  He  liked  her  best  when  she  was  impudent, 
satirical,  and  cutting.  I  n  her  languorous  moods,  when 
she  reclined  on  a  sofa  and  bade  him  sit  on  a  stool 
by  her  side  and  tell  her  some  of  his  love  stories,  or 
some  tale  of  old  romance  and  naughtiness,  he  dis- 
liked her  and  was  afraid  of  her.  When  she  sang  to 
him,  in  a  florid,  well-trained  voice,  he  wished  that 
he  had  not  come  to  her  house,  for  there  was  some- 
thing in  the  timbre  of  that  voice  which  gave  him  a 
queer  feeling  down  his  spine.  But  the  beauty  of 
the  woman  was  undeniable,  and  her  eyes  had 
witchery  in  them  which  was  sometimes  dangerous. 
More  often  than  he  found  it  discreet  to  count,  he 
played  bridge  in  the  Percevals'  house,  and  his  luck, 
or  his  skill,  was  almost  invariably  bad,  so  that  he 
lost  a  good  deal  of  money,  in  small  sums  of  a  sove- 
reign or  two.  The  invalid  husband  was  a  genius  at 
the  game,  and  seemed  to  derive  a  grim  satisfaction 
in  winning  money  from  his  wife's  friends. 

Oliver's  absence  on  those  evenings  left  Virginia 
alone,  and  when  he  came  back  he  would  find  her 
generally  in  the  library,  doing  needlework  for  the 
poor  women  of  the  parish,  or  with  a  book  in  her  lap 
which  she  was  not  reading.  Once  or  twice  Oliver 
was  startled  by  the  pallor  of  her  face  and  by  the 


The  Broken  Image       333 

sorrow  in  her  eyes.  Then  he  had  a  twinge  of 
conscience  and  resolved  that  he  would  not  leave 
her  so  much  alone.  But  after  a  few  nights  he  would 
have  the  old  restless  feeling,  and  the  craving  for  the 
excitement  of  Mrs.  Perceval's  drawing-room. 

"  My  dear,"  he  would  say  to  Virginia  then,  "  I 
must  go  for  a  swinging  walk  to  blow  the  cobwebs 
out  of  my  eyes.  I  may  look  in  at  the  club  on  my 
way  back." 

"  Very  well,  Oliver.     Do  not  be  too  late." 

That  was  Virginia's  answer,  for  after  his  protest 
against  leading  a  hermit's  life  she  had  ceased  com- 
plaining about  the  constant  interruption  of  his  work. 
She  saw  that  her  youthful  husband  needed  brighter 
society  than  she  was  able  to  give  him,  and  for  his 
sake  she  was  ready  to  be  as  lonely  again  as  when 
unmarried.  She  was  glad  that  he  had  joined  the 
Conservative  Club,  where  he  met  men  of  his 
own  age. 

But  one  night  when  he  came  home  she  said  in 
a  quiet  voice  : 

"  Do  you  always  go  to  the  club,  Oliver,  when 
you  stay  out  like  this  ?  " 

"  Generally,"  said  Oliver.     "  Why  ?  " 

'*  Do  the  men  scent  themselves  at  your  club  ? 
Sometimes  there  is  a  curious  fragrance  about  your 
clothes  like  otto  of  roses." 

Oliver  laughed  loudly. 

"  Good  Lord,  Virginia  !  What  queer  ideas  creep 
into  that  little  head  of  yours  I  " 


334     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

But  his  heart  stopped  beating  for  a  moment. 

"  I  have  a  very  quick  sense  of  smell,"  said 
Virginia. 

Later  that  evening  she  came  and  sat  on  the 
hearth-rug  at  his  feet  and  rested  her  head  on  his 
knees. 

"  Dear  heart,"  she  said,  "  you  will  always  be 
truthful  with  me,  won't  you  ?  I  should  be  very 
miserable  if  I  could  not  trust  your  word  of  honour. 
I  think  that  would  kill  me." 

"  Have  you  any  reason  not  to  trust  me  ?  "  said 
Oliver. 

"  No.  I  think  not.  I  hope  not,  Oliver,  I  am 
foolish.  .  .  .  Someti  les,  sitting  here  alone,  I  get 
uneasy  suspicions.  .  .  .  You  do  not  talk  to  me 
so  much  now.  You  do  not  open  your  heart  to 
me.  ...  I  sometimes  think  you  have  secrets  which 
I  do  not  share." 

Oliver  did  not  answer  for  a  moment.  Then  he 
said  in  a  rather  tremulous  voice,  "  I  hope  you  are 
not  going  to  be  suspicious  of  me,  dearest.  Surely 
by  this  time  we  can  trust  each  other  ?  " 

She  drew  his  head  down  and  kissed  him  on  the 
forehead. 

"  Forgive  me.  ...  I  have  not  been  very  well 
lately.     I  am  sure  I  can  trust  you." 

But  a  few  evenings  later,  when  Oliver  had  been 
to  tea  with  Mrs.  Perceval,  Virginia  met  her  hus- 
band in  the  hall.  He  saw  at  once  that  something 
had  distressed  her,  for  she  was  very  white,  and  did 


The  Broken  Image        335 

not  smile  in  return  to  his  greeting.  Indeed,  vviien 
he  stooped  to  kiss  her  she  put  out  her  hand  and 
said,  "  Not  now  .  .  .  not  now.  Oliver,  I  want  to 
speak  to  you.     Let  us  go  into  your  study." 

They  went  into  the  small  room  which  Oliver 
now  used  as  his  own  private  den. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?  "  he  asked,  when  the  door 
was  shut. 

"  It  is  all  that  matters,"  said  Virginia.  "  Oliver, 
I  want  to  ask  you  a  few  questions.  For  God's 
sake  tell  me  the  truth.  Where  did  you  go  this 
afternoon  ?  " 

"  For  a  walk,"  said  Oliver. 

"  Where  did  you  go  last  night  ?  " 

"  To  the  club." 

It  was  quite  true.  After  leaving  the  Percevals' 
he  had  looked  in  at  the  club  for  five  minutes. 

"  Nowhere  else  ?  " 

She  looked  into  his  eyes,  as  though  beseeching 
him  to  tell  the  truth. 

He  hesitated,  and  went  rather  pale. 

"  Why  do  you  catechise  me  like  this  ?  What  is 
in  your  mind,  Virginia  ?  " 

She  put  her  hands  to  her  head  and  said,  "  There 
is  nothing  in  my  mind — except  a  great  fear." 

"You  are  getting  hysterical,  my  dear,"  said 
Oliver.     "  Pray  calm  yourself." 

"Yes,  I  will  be  calm,"  said  Virginia.  "I  ask 
you  again  !  Did  you  go  nowhere  else  last  night 
except  to  the  club  ? " 


33^     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

"  As  far  as  I  remember "  said  Oliver,  and 

then  he  felt  very  much  afraid. 

"  You  are  deceiving  me,"  said  Virginia.  She 
gave  a  little  moan,  and  said,  "  Oliver,  you  have 
been  deceiving  me  for  two  months.  I  have  found 
out  that  you  have  been  to  Mrs.  Perceval  con- 
stantly." 

"  It  is  true,"  he  said  quietly.  "  I  have  been 
there  pretty  often.  I  did  not  tell  you,  because  I 
know  you  have  a  prejudice  against  the  woman." 

"  I  have  a  prejudice  against  deceit,"  said  Virginia. 
She  spoke  quickly  now,  and  more  passionately 
than  ever  he  had  heard  her  speak. 

"  Why  did  you  not  tell  me  ?  Mrs.  Perceval  is  a 
bad  woman,  but  if  you  had  told  me  that  you 
wanted  to  go  to  her  house  I  should  not  have  for- 
bidden you.  I  should  have  had  no  right  to  forbid 
you.  But  you  hid  the  truth  from  me.  You  pre- 
tended to  me.     You  lied  to  me." 

She  put  her  hands  to  her  throat  as  though  she 
were  stifling. 

"  Oh,  that  is  what  breaks  my  heart.  I  believed 
in  your  honour,  and  you  lied  to  me.  How  can 
I  ever  trust  you  again  ? " 

She  was  weeping  now. 

Oliver  bent  over  the  sofa,  where  she  sat  with 
her  face  in  her  hands. 

"  Darling,  I  did  not  lie  to  you.  I  only  kept 
the  truth  from  you.  I  have  been  frightfully 
foolish." 


The  Broken  Image       337 

She  stretched  out  her  arms  to  him  and  he 
thought  he  was  forgiven,  so  that  his  heart  leapt 
up.  But  she  said,  "  You  have  broken  my  beautiful 
ideal  of  you.  How  can  I  build  it  up  again  ? 
Oh,  dear  heart,  you  have  been  a  liar  to  me !  " 

That  mingling  of  love  with  condemnation  was 
worse  for  Oliver  to  bear  than  the  most  passionate 
reproach.  There  were  tears  in  his  own  eyes  now, 
and  his  soul  was  ashamed.  He  knelt  down  by 
his  wife's  side,  and  tried  to  build  himself  up 
again — to  patch  up  that  broken  ideal  of  himself 
in  Virginia's  heart.  But  he  was  like  Humpty- 
Dumpty,  and  not  all  the  king's  horses  nor  all 
the  king's  men  could  quite  mend  the  thing  that 
had  been  smashed  by  his  own  folly  and  carelessness. 

He  made  her  one  pledge.  He  would  never  go  to 
Mrs.  Perceval's  again.  She  accepted  that  promise 
and  hoped  he  would  keep  it.  That  "  hope " 
showed  that  she  had  lost  her  trust  in  him. 


22 


CHAPTER    XLI 
Haunting  Fears 

There  was  some  talk  in  Windlesham,  among  ladies 
who  talked  rather  too  much  perhaps,  about  the 
disappearance  of  Alice  Featherfew,  whom  Oliver 
had  called  "The  Goose-Girl"  and  "Patient 
Griselda." 

She  had  left  the  village  suddenly,  about  four 
months  after  Oliver's  marriage,  and,  according  to 
Miss  Purchase,  the  girl's  mother  "  made  a  mystery 
of  it."  She  had  not  gone  to  service  in  London, 
it  seemed,  like  so  many  of  the  best  Windlesham 
girls,  and  Mrs.  Featherfew  shook  her  head  and 
sighed  loudly,  and  gave  other  ominous  signs  of 
distress  when  Alice's  name  was  mentioned.  On 
the  other  hand,  she  flared  up  at  a  direct  question — 
and  Miss  Purchase  was  always  direct  in  her 
questions — and  had  said  very  rudely  that  she 
would  not  have  people  poking  their  noses  into 
what  was  no  business  of  theirn. 

"  I  am  afraid,"  said  Miss  Purchase  in  Virginia's 
drawing-room  one  day,  "  that  there  is  only  one 
interpretation  to  be  put  upon  this  affair.  You 
know  what  I  mean,  my  dear  ?  " 

Virginia   said   that   she  could   believe    nothing 
338 


Haunting  Fears  339 

very  bad  of  Alice.  She  had  been  a  very  good 
girl,  and  had  behaved  in  a  modest  way  in  the 
choir.  She  had  a  sweet  voice,  too,  and  her  eyes 
were  as  innocent  as  a  child's. 

"  Ah,"  said  Miss  Purchase  grimly,  "  I  distrust 
those  girls  with  big  innocent  eyes." 

Lady  Buntingford  was  of  opinion  that  Miss 
Purchase  would  distrust  an  angel  if  she  met  her 
in  the  High  Street.  As  for  Alice  Featherfew,  if 
the  poor  child  had  got  into  trouble  it  would  be 
their  bounden  duty  to  help  her  by  all  means  in 
their  power. 

"  I  have  no  patience  with  that  self-righteous 
cruelty  which  casts  stones  at  these  poor  girls. 
They  are  led  astray  not  so  much  by  evil  instincts 
as  by  trustfulness  in  false  promises.  We  women 
are  very  weak,  my  dears." 

Virginia's  pale  cheeks  flushed.  She  thought 
the  conversation  was  getting  out  of  bounds. 

But  she  turned  to  Oliver,  who  happened  to  be 
in  the  room,  and  said,  "  You  always  found  Alice 
very  nice  and  respectable,  Oliver  ? " 

"  Very,"  said  Oliver,  and  then  he  strolled  out 
of  the  room  to  smoke  a  cigarette. 

But  in  his  study  he  turned  rather  faint  and 
white,  and  an  overwhelming  sense  of  fear  took 
possession  of  him.  He  put  his  hand  in  his  breast- 
pocket and  drew  out  a  crumpled  letter.  It  was 
written  in  a  big  childish  handwriting.  As  he 
read  it  his  hand  trembled. 


340     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

"Dear  Sir, 

"I  am  in  grate  truble.  i  have  been  sent  away 
from  home  i  hope  i  shal  dy  i  have  told  noboddy 
your  luving 

"Alice," 


He  put  a  corner  of  the  letter  into  the  flame  of 
a  candle  on  the  mantelpiece,  and  watched  the 
paper  burn  to  a  curling  cinder  until  his  own 
fingers  were  singed.  Then  he  said  "  Good  God ! 
Good  God  !  "  and  sat  in  a  chair,  holding  its  arms 
and  staring  at  the  opposite  wall  like  a  man  struck 
down  by  some  blow  of  fate. 

But  the  weeks  passed  and  the  months,  and  he 
heard  no  more  about  Alice,  and  the  fear  almost 
passed  from  him,  and  his  memory  of  that  strange, 
ill-spelt  letter  which  he  had  burnt  in  the  candle- 
flame.  Only  now  and  again,  as  he  walked  out  in 
the  darkness  of  night  or  sat  alone  in  his  study, 
did  he  think  of  the  fresh-complexioned  girl  with 
the  childish  blue  eyes  to  whom  he  had  told  fairy- 
stories  in  Myrtle  Cottage.  This  ghost-face  stared 
into  his  then  with  haunting  eyes,  so  that  he  went 
pale  and  tried  to  blot  it  out  by  other  thoughts. 
When  it  came  to  him  unexpectedly,  at  odd  times, 
a  dread  of  something  terrible  to  come,  of  some 
discovery,  made  him  numb  and  cold,  so  that  once 
he  had  to  gulp  down  neat  whisky  to  steady  his 
nerves  and  overcome  this  weakness. 

He  was  ploughing  through  his  book  now  more 


Haunting  Fears  341 


steadily,  though  again  with  periods  of  inactivity, 
and  with  many  interruptions.  For  often  he  was 
very  bored  with  his  own  work,  and  loathed  the 
sight  of  his  scrawling  handwriting  on  a  pile  of 
loose  sheets.  He  felt  that  all  inspiration  had  gone 
out  of  him.  He  was  writing  feeble,  conventional 
stuff.  He  put  off  the  time  of  reading  it  to  Virginia. 
He  told  her  that  he  would  rather  read  it  as  a 
whole  to  her,  so  that  she  should  get  the  broad 
general  effect.  He  had  taken  to  riding  a  horse 
now — Virginia  had  agreed  to  that  expense  for  the 
sake  of  his  health — and  he  would  go  for  long, 
lonely  rides  as  far  as  Worcester,  or  round  the 
neighbouring  country.  He  also  did  a  good  deal 
of  shooting,  for  he  was  friendly  now  with  many  of 
the  old  generals  and  county  men  around,  and  they 
were  glad  enough  to  let  him  join  the  guns.  This 
kept  him  in  fine  physical  form,  and  as  a  rule 
he  was  in  high  spirits.  He  thoroughly  enjoyed 
his  life  as  a  country  gentleman,  and  the  days 
seemed  far  back  when  he  was  a  penniless  fellow 
in  a  middle-class  suburb.  Yet  it  was  not  many 
months  ago. 

He  gave  pleasant  dinner-parties  at  The  Rookery, 
and  put  good  wine  before  his  guests.  As  he  sat  at 
the  head  of  his  table  he  did  not  regret  the  road  up 
which  he  had  been  led  by  fortune.  On  the  whole, 
he  had  done  well  for  himself. 

Unfortunately  a  change  seemed  to  have  come 
over  Virginia.     She  was  inclined  to  be  stern  with 


34^     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

him,  and  to  treat  him,  not  so  much  as  a  husband 
to  whom  she  owed  reverence  and  honour,  as  a 
wayward  youth  who  required  discipline. 

"  Confound  it !  "  he  said  once  or  twice  to  himself, 
"she  comes  the  schoolmistress  over  me  too 
much." 

He  did  not  say  that  to  her,  for,  to  tell  the  truth, 
he  was  a  little  afraid  of  his  delicate  wife — afraid  of 
her  reproachful  eyes,  and  of  her  sadness,  and  of  her 
silence  even.  He  had  come  to  the  conclusion  that 
her  spirituality  was  rather  beyond  his  reach.  He 
wished  that  her  ideals  were  not  quite  so  exalted, 
and  that  her  sense  of  honour  would  not  be  so 
clear-cut  and  rigid.  He  pitied  himself  sometimes 
for  being,  at  his  time  of  life,  when  flushed  with  the 
wine  of  youth  and  with  hot  blood  in  his  veins, 
the  husband  of  an  invalid.  He  was  inclined  to 
admire  his  self-sacrifice  in  having  made  such  a 
marriage. 

But  his  great  trouble  about  Virginia  was  her 
"  nearness "  with  regard  to  money.  She  had 
inherited  a  spirit  of  economy  from  her  stern  old 
father,  which,  he  thought,  was  hardly  right  for  a 
woman  of  property. 

She  accused  him  of  extravagance  a  hundred 
times. 

"  I  am  not  so  rich  as  you  imagine.  You  must 
really  understand,  Oliver,  that  it  costs  a  great  deal 
of  money  to  keep  up  this  household  and  the 
garden,  and  that  my  income  is  hardly  more  than 


Haunting  Fears  343 

sufficient.  We  cannot  afford  to  indulge  in  needless 
luxuries  or  in  lavish  entertainment.  Your  personal 
expenses  seem  to  me  extraordinary.  What  do 
you  do  with  all  the  money  ?  " 

He  could  not  quite  explain  that,  except  by 
saying  that  he  had  to  live  and  dress  like  a  gentle- 
man. As  a  matter  of  fact  he  was  not,  he  thought, 
unduly  lavish  upon  his  personal  expenditure.  The 
only  items  which  gave  him  a  twinge  of  conscience 
were  his  card  debts — they  played  for  rather  high 
stakes  at  the  club,  and  in  the  country  houses 
around — and  his  generous  tips  to  the  servants  of 
his  friends.  Generosity  in  tipping  was  a  weakness 
of  his,  and  mounted  up  most  damnably. 

"  Surely,  my  dear  girl,"  he  said  one  day  very 
irritably,  when  Virginia  had  gone  into  the  details 
of  the  bank  balance,  over  which  she  kept  a  closer 
watch  now,  "  you  are  not  going  to  fling  your  money 
in  my  face  ?  I  understood  we  were  to  share 
everything  in  common.  If  you  want  to  put  me 
into  the  position  of  a  pauper " 

"  I  want  you  to  be  careful,"  said  Virginia. 
"  Look  at  all  these  items — self— self — self — self. 
You  are  always  drawing  money  which  does  not 
go  to  pay  household  bills,  or  anything  that  I 
can  account  for.  I  do  not  know  what  you  do 
with  it  all." 

She  clasped  her  hands  in  her  lap  and  looked 
across  to  him  where  he  sat  nursing  a  well-gaitered 
leg. 


344     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

"  I  thought  once  that  you  would  be  earning 
money  of  your  own.  But  I  have  almost  given  up 
that  hope.  It  seems  to  me  your  book  will  never 
be  finished." 

"  It  will  never  be  finished  if  I  am  worried  about 
money  matters,"  said  Oliver.  "  I  thought  I  had 
got  away  from  all  that  wretchedness." 


CHAPTER   XLII 

The  Father  of  the  Girl 

There  came  a  time  when  money  affairs  began  to 
embarrass  him  most  seriously,  and  when  all  his 
troubles  in  Barton  Street,  Westminster,  were  but 
trivial  to  this  new  anxiety,  beyond  which  lay  a 
great  fear. 

It  began  with  the  meeting  of  a  carpenter  and 
boat-builder  in  the  lower  town.  He  was  walking 
home  in  the  dusk  of  a  winter  afternoon  when  the 
man  stepped  out  in  the  roadway  and  stood  in  front 
of  him. 

"  Beg  pardon,  Mr.  Lumley.  Might  I  have  a 
word  with  'ee  ?  " 

"  What  is  it,  my  man  ?  " 

He  was  a  middle-aged  man  with  a  brown  beard 
and  sharp  blue  eyes. 

"  It  is  summat  that  has  best  not  be  spoke  out  i' 
the  street.  I'll  trouble  you  to  come  inside  my 
shed.     There'll  be  no  secrets  heard  there." 

"  I'm  in  a  hurry.  If  you  have  anything  to  say, 
speak  it  out  now,  my  good  fellow." 

"  I  don't  know  about  my  being  your  good  fellow. 
But  maybe  you'll  be  less  in  a  hurry  when  I  tell  'ee 
I  am  Alice  Featherfew's  feyther." 
345 


34^     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

Oliver  suddenly  felt  very  cold.  Without  a  word, 
he  followed  the  man  into  the  shed. 

He  sat  down  on  a  carpenter's  bench  with  his 
feet  in  the  shavings.  It  was  almost  dark  in  the 
workshop. 

"  What  about  Alice  ?  "  he  said,  in  a  voice  that 
sounded  queer  to  his  own  ears.  "  She  used  to 
work  for  me  in  Myrtle  Cottage." 

"  Yes,  that's  true  enough,"  said  the  man.  "  You 
can't  get  away  from  that.  It  was  ten  months  ago. 
All  the  townsfolk  can  swear  to  that" 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

Oliver  stood  up  and  faced  the  man.  But  those 
sharp  blue  eyes  seemed  to  bore  into  his  own  like 
gimlets. 

"  I  don't  know  exactly  what  I  does  mean.  I 
haven't  exackly  made  up  my  mind." 

He  thrust  a  bit  of  paper  into  Oliver's  hand. 

"  Read  that.  Maybe  it'll  help  'ee  to  think  out 
what  I  mean,  when  I've  made  up  my  own  mind  to 
what  I  does  mean  exackly." 

"  How  the  devil  can  I  read  it  ? "  said  Oliver. 
"  It  is  dark." 

"  Aye,  I  forgot  it  was  dark.  We'll  make  a  bit  o' 
light." 

He  lit  an  oil  lamp  slowly  and  deliberately.  It 
made  a  horrid  smell  in  the  shed. 

"  She  writes  plain.  You'll  be  able  to  read  it 
now,  with  this  'ere  lamp  to  light  'ee." 

He  held  the  lamp  above  Oliver's  head.      And 


The  Father  of  the  Girl   347 

Oliver  read  some  ill-spelt  words  in  a  big  childish 
handwriting.     There  were  only  a  few  words. 

"Dear  Feyther, 

"  I  didn't  want  to  tell  he  was  very  kind  to  me 
and  didn't  mean  no  harm  it  was  Mr.  OUerver 
Lumley  o  my  pore  hart 

"Your  luving 

"  Alice." 


Oliver  let  the  paper  fall  into  the  shavings. 

"  It's  a  lie,"  he  said,  in  a  strangled  voice. 

"  It's  Gord's  truth,"  said  the  brown-bearded 
man. 

"  You  have  no  proof.     I  deny  it." 

A  big  brown  hand  clasped  his  right  shoulder 
with  an  iron  grip. 

"  Then  you'll  have  to  deny  it,  Mr.  Ollerver 
Lumley,  to  all  Windlesham.  I'll  raise  the  whole 
town  against  'ee,  and  it's  your  own  wife  what  '11  be 
the  first  to  hear." 

"  What  do  you  want  me  to  do?"  said  Oliver. 

He  swung  himself  free  from  the  man's  grip  and 
paced  up  and  down  the  dimly  lighted  shed. 

"  Ah,  now  you're  talking,"  said  Alice  Featherfew's 
father.  "  That  is  what  I've  been  axing  myself. 
What  be  'ee  going  to  do,  Mr.  Ollerver  Lumley? 
What  be  'ee  going  to  do  ?  " 


CHAPTER   XLIII 

The  Blackmailers 

Oliver  had  to  do  many  things  during  the  next 
few  months  which  gave  a  haggard  look  to  his  face 
and  kept  him  awake  at  nights  and  made  him  afraid 
of  going  out-of-doors,  and  start  and  tremble  when 
his  wife  came  suddenly  into  a  room  where  he  was 
sitting,  or  said  "  Oliver,  may  I  speak  to  you  for  a 
moment  ?  " 

Because  he  was  a  hunted  man,  with  a  pack  of 
wolves  sniffing  round  his  heels  in  Windlesham, 
ready  to  tear  him  to  pieces  if  he  did  not  throw 
food  to  them.  They  snarled  and  grimaced  at  him, 
and  their  appetite  grew  with  what  they  fed  on. 

John  Featherfew  was  the  leader  of  the  pack,  and 
a  hungry,  cunning,  cruel  old  wolf.  But  there  was 
Alfred  Featherfew,  his  drunken,  ne'er-do-weel  son, 
and  Moll  Featherfew,  his  fat,  sluttish  wife,  and 
William  Featherfew,  his  brother,  who  kept  a  beer 
tavern  in  the  worst  street  in  Windlesham,  down  by 
the  river,  and  William  Featherfew's  vixen  wife,  a  thin 
drab  of  a  woman,  with  a  shrill,  cackling  laugh  and 
high-pitched  voice,  and  William  Featherfew's  son 
Jock,  who  was  gardener  to  Mrs.  Perceval,  and  a  big, 
bullying  lout  who  had  ruined  many  girls  in  the  town. 
348 


The  Blackmailers         349 

Oliver  knew  them  all  now — the  whole  pack. 
They  had  stalked  him  when  he  went  out  for  walks 
or  rides.  They  had  touched  hats  to  him  with  a 
"  Beg  pardon,  Mr.  Ollerver  Lumley,  I'm  one  of  the 
Featherfews,  and  I'm  willing  to  keep  a  shut  mouth 
if  so  be  as  it's  worth  my  while." 

That  was  what  Jock  had  said  with  his  hand  on 
Oliver's  saddle  strap. 

Oliver  raised  his  whip  to  slash  the  fellow  across 
the  face,  but  at  the  man's  gruff  laugh  he  had 
dropped  his  arm  and  said,  "  What  do  you  want  ?  " 

"  I  want  summat  to  go  on  with,"  said  Jock. 
"  I'll  take  a  pound  or  two  for  a  start.  Silence  be 
golden,  they  say." 

He  laughed  with  hoarse  mirth,  as  though  he 
had  made  a  good  joke. 

Oliver  threw  two  sovereigns  on  to  the  roadway. 

"  You  dirty  blackmailer  ! "  he  said. 

The  loutish  fellow  picked  them  up. 

"  You'd  best  mend  your  manners,"  he  said.  "  I 
can  tell  a  story  as  well  as  any  man." 

John  Featherfew,  the  leader  of  the  pack,  wanted 
more  than  a  pound  or  two  as  the  price  of  silence. 
His  brain  was  active,  and  he  thought  out  many 
schemes  for  improving  his  condition  in  life.  His 
old  shed  wanted  rebuilding.  It  was  tumbling 
about  his  very  ears.  No  doubt  Mr.  Ollerver 
Lumley  would  lend  a  helping  hand.  How  much  ? 
Well,  a  matter  of  fifty  pounds  would  do  the  job, 
and  nicely. 


350     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

Then  there  was  his  boy,  Alf.  Alf  had  been 
a  trouble  to  him.  Couldn't  find  no  settled  way 
o'  life.  But  he  had  a  notion  of  starting  a  farm  in 
Canada.  Maybe  Mr.  Ollerver  Lumley  as  a  friend 
o'  the  family  would  give  him  a  start  out  West  ? 
Another  fifty.  That  'ud  fix  him  up.  Windlesham 
would  be  glad  to  see  the  last  of  Alf.  It  would 
be  a  blessing  to  every  one. 

Mrs.  William  Featherfew's  mother  was  an  ailing 
woman.  Her  man  had  died  a  year  come  Michael- 
mas. She  was  left  with  just  a  roof  above  her 
head.  The  old  soul  would  like  a  little  comfort  in 
her  last  days.  A  few  pounds  would  make  her 
merry  and  bright.  Oh,  yes,  she  had  heard  of  Mr. 
Ollerver  Lumley.  But  she  could  keep  her  tongue 
between  her  teeth. 

It  was  a  conspiracy.  These  people  were  a  gang 
of  blackmailers,  as  cunning  as  devils,  and  just 
as  cruel.  Oliver  could  not  escape  from  them. 
If  he  stepped  outside  The  Rookery  one  of  them 
was  sure  to  be  hanging  round  the  gates,  ready 
to  give  him  a  "  Good  marnin'  to  'ee.  There  be 
just  a  little  thing,  Mr.  Ollerver  Lumley " 

They  invited  him  to  tea  in  their  cottages,  for 
family  conferences. 

They  shut  him  up  in  their  overheated  parlours, 
and  talked  in  whispers  to  him,  or  banged  heavy 
fists  on  the  tea-table,  so  that  the  cups  rattled, 
or  laughed  with  a  high,  cackling  mirth  like  witch 
laughter.     He  met  a   Featherfew  as  far  away  as 


The  Blackmailers  351 

Merdingham,  fifteen  miles  through  the  woodlands. 
He  was  a  shepherd,  and  wanted  a  new  sheep-dog. 
Sometimes  he  came  into  Windlesham  on  a  market 
day.  He  was  old  friends  with  "  Miss  Virginia." 
The  girl  Alice  was  his  own  niece.  Not  that  he 
wanted  to  give  Mr.  Lumley  away  for  a  mistake 
which  may  happen  upon  any  young  man.  Still, 
a  niece  was  a  niece,  and  the  same  with  a  sheep-dog. 

Oliver  made  many  visits  to  the  bank.  He  did 
not  care  to  write  cheques  out  to  the  family  of 
Featherfew.  Nor  would  they  take  cheques.  They 
liked  the  glint  of  gold. 

The  shame  and  the  terror  of  it  all  !  Oliver 
waited  for  that  day  when  his  wife  would  want  to 
know  how  he  had  overdrawn  the  account  which 
she  had  made  out  in  his  name.  It  came  at  last, 
but  even  then  too  soon  for  the  invention  of  any 
reasonable  explanation. 

She  came  to  him  in  his  study  and  said,  "  Oliver, 
what  is  the  meaning  of  this  ? "  You  have  been 
spending  money  like  water.  The  account  is  over- 
drawn." 

"  Overdrawn  ?  "  he  said.     "  Surely  not  ?  " 

She  was  very  grave,  and  there  was  a  look  of 
deep  suspicion  in  her  eyes — of  suspicion  and  anger. 

"  I  must  go  into  this.  I  cannot  leave  it  in 
uncertainty.     What  are  all  these  mysteries  ?  " 

"  Mysteries  ?  " 

"  Yes,  mysteries.  On  the  fifteenth  of  January 
fifty  pounds  to  'self,'  on  the  twelfth  of  February 


352     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

another   fifty,  on  the   fifteenth   of  February   five 
pounds,  on  the  twentieth  ten  pounds." 

She  let  the  book  fall  from  her  hand  on  the 
carpet,  and  said  in  a  low  voice  : 

"  Oliver,  I  do  not  beg  of  you  to  tell  me  the 
truth — I  command  you." 

"Command?  That  is  hardly  a  word  to  use 
to  your  husband,  my  dear." 

He  tried  to  laugh,  but  the  sound  rattled  in  his 
throat. 

"  I  trusted  you  with  my  money.  It  is  the  money 
my  father  earned  by  service  to  his  country. 
What,  in  your  laziness,  have  you  done  with  it? 
On  what  have  you  wasted  it  ?  " 

He  had  not  seen  this  Virginia  before.  She  had 
never  spoken  words  like  that  to  him.  Her  pale 
face  was  flushed  now.  Her  eyes  were  very  wide 
open,  very  luminous.  In  that  moment,  when  his 
soul  shuddered  with  cowardice,  he  thought  how 
beautiful  she  was,  taller,  stronger,  less  frail.  There 
was  a  fighting  spirit  in  her  eyes.  She  was  extra- 
ordinarily like  the  portrait  of  her  father  as  a  young 
man,  over  the  chimneypiece  in  the  dining-room, 
in  the  uniform  of  the  Royal  Artillery,  with  the 
delicate,  aquiline  face  of  Napoleon  when  he  was 
the  young  general  of  Italy. 

Oliver  thrust  out  his  hands,  and  said,  "  Virginia, 
dear  wife,  I  cannot  explain  those  items  .  .  .  you 
must  have  faith  in  me." 
"  Faith  in  you  ?  " 


The  Blackmailers  353 

She  repeated  the  words. 

"  I  am  losing  faith  in  you  ...  I  think  I  have 
lost  it." 

He  tried  to  take  her  hand,  but  she  plucked  it 
from  him. 

"  No ;  I  am  not  to  be  bribed  into  trustfulness 
by  your  kisses.     I  have  gone  beyond  that." 

"  I  am  sorry.  Have  you  got  beyond  your  love 
for  me  ?  " 

She  raised  her  head  very  proudly. 

"It  is  because  I  love  you  with  my  whole  heart 
and  soul  that  I  am  resolved  to  have  the  truth. 
Your  honour  is  my  honour,  for  I  bear  your  name. 
Your  untruthfulness  is  my  shame,  because  my  life 
is  yours.  Oliver,  in  the  name  of  our  love  I 
command  you  to  tell  me  on  what  you  have  spent 
this  money." 

His  brain  was  busy  with  lies.  .  .  .  Then  he 
thrust  them  on  one  side.  He  would  not  sink 
deeper  into  the  mire. 

"  I  cannot  tell  you,"  he  said  simply.  "  I  can 
only  say  that  they  have  cost  me  more  agon}- 
than  the  loss  to  you." 

"  Do  you  decline  to  tell  me  ?  " 

"  I'm  afraid  so." 

She  drooped  her  head. 

"  Then  it  must  be  a  guilty  secret.  It  is  some- 
thing you  are  afraid  to  tell  me." 

"  It  is  not  so  bad  as  you  think,"  he  said.  "  One 
of  these  days  I  will  tell  you." 

23 


354     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

"  Until  you  tell  me,"  said  Virginia,  "  I  shall 
have  no  peace.  I  shall  be  haunted  with  the  fear 
of  dishonour." 

"  1  swear  to  you,"  said  Oliver,  "  that  I  will  never 
let  dishonour  touch  your  name.  Do  you  not 
believe  that?" 

She  said,  "  I  do  not  know  what  to  believe.  I 
am  only  bewildered — and  afraid." 


CHAPTER   XLIV 

'The  Outcast 

After  that  painful  scene  Virginia  cancelled 
Oliver's  account  at  the  bank,  and  took  all  money 
matters  into  her  own  hands  again. 

He  had  not  expected  that  of  her.  It  caused 
him  an  agony  of  humiliation,  for  he  was  absolutely 
dependent  upon  her  now.  He  took  to  shaving 
himself  rather  than  ask  her  for  money  to  pay  the 
barber.  He  tried  to  give  up  smoking  rather  than 
beg  of  her ;  but  this  caused  him  such  intense 
torture  and  put  such  a  strain  upon  his  nerves  that 
he  could  not  endure  it. 

"  I  must  get  some  tobacco,"  he  said  one  day 
sullenly,  "  and  I  am  penniless." 

She  passed  half  a  sovereign  over  to  him,  and 
said  in  her  quiet  way,  "  That  should  last  you  some 
time,  Oliver." 

He  hated  her  at  that  moment.  All  that  was 
fierce  and  brutal  in  his  nature  (and  the  tiger  is  in 
every  man's  heart,  however  weak  he  may  be) 
leapt  up  at  his  throat. 

He  was  livid  with  rage  and  shame. 

"  You  treat  me  like  a  dog,"  he  said. 

She  answered  quietly  again,  "  I  treat  you  as 
355 


35^     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

one  quite  irresponsible  with  regard  to  money, 
Oliver.     It  is  best  for  both  our  sakes." 

"  By  God,  it  is  intolerable  ! "  he  said,  and  then 
strode  out  of  the  room. 

But  after  he  had  changed  the  half-sovereign  and 
smoked  the  pipe  he  was  sorry  for  his  violence, 
and  his  hatred  left  him.  Alone  in  the  room,  he 
shed  weak  tears  because  the  woman  who  had 
been  so  gentle  and  dove-like — the  dream-lady  of 
his  summer  idyll,  his  beautiful,  delicate  wife,  had 
become  his  schoolmistress,  with  a  birch  rod  that 
lashed  his  pride  and  spirit. 

It  seemed  that  she  was  determined  to  teach  him 
a  lesson,  to  exact  a  stern  punishment  for  his  follies. 
And  she  had  the  whip-hand.  He  was  a  pauper, 
living  on  her  charity.  He  could  not  spend  half 
a  crown  without  her  knowledge  and  consent. 
Katherine  was  right,  after  all.  She  had  warned 
him  against  all  this.  She  asked  him  what  he 
would  do  if  his  wife  turned  on  him  and  reproached 
him  with  her  wealth  against  his  poverty.  Well,  it 
had  happened,  and  he  was  humbled  into  the  dust 
by  the  woman  he  had  married.  Oh,  she  could 
take  it  out  of  him  now  !  He  had  not  the  pluck  of 
a  mouse  in  her  presence. 

But  there  was  worse  to  come.  He  could  not 
disguise  from  himself  that  the  last  blow  was  yet 
to  fall. 

When  would  the  wolves  come  howling  round  The 
Rookery  gates  ? 


The  Outcast  357 

They  were  remarkably  quiet.  He  could  not 
understand  the  false  air  of  peace  about  him.  Not 
yet  had  they  given  tongue,  although  he  pandered 
no  longer  to  their  appetite. 

It  was  outside  the  town  that  he  met  the  leader 
of  the  pack  after  Virginia's  discovery  of  the  over- 
drawn account.  John  Featherfew  was  trudging 
homewards  with  his  bag  of  tools  over  his  shoulder. 
He  stepped  out  into  the  middle  of  the  road  and 
put  his  hand  on  Oliver's  bridle-rein. 

"  My  old  woman,"  he  said,  "  has  taken  a  bit  of  a 
chill.  She  be  fretting  for  a  week-end  at  the  sea- 
side. It'll  cost  a  matter  of  thirty  shillin'.  Maybe 
you've  got  your   purse  on  'ee,  Mr.  Ollerver " 

"  You'll  never  get  any  more  money  out  of  my 
purse,  John  Featherfew,"  said  Oliver  sternly. 
"  Neither  you  nor  any  of  your  blackguardly  gang." 

"  What  be  that  ?  "  said  the  man,  plucking  at  his 
brown  beard,  and  with  an  ugly  glare  in  his  steel- 
blue  eyes.  Then  he  laughed  and  said,  "  You  be 
jokin',  Mr.  Ollerver.  Lord  love  'ee,  I  can  see  a 
joke  with  the  best  of  'em." 

Oliver  bent  over  his  saddle. 

"  Take  your  hand  off  my  rein,  John  Featherfew, 
or  I'll  cut  it  off  with  this  whip." 

He  raised  the  whip  and  set  his  teeth.  He  would 
have  cut  the  man's  wrist  to  the  bone  if  he  had  not 
released  the  rein  and  staggered  back. 

He  chirruped  to  his  horse  along  the  road. 
John  Featherfew's  voice  shouted  after  him  thickly, 


358      Oliver's   Kind  Women 

but  the  wind  swept  the  man's  words  back  and 
Oliver  did  not  hear  them.  He  only  knew  that 
they  were  threats. 

A  week  passed,  and  two  weeks.  He  saw  no 
more  of  the  Featherfews  and  heard  no  more  of 
them.  It  seemed  that  his  defiance  had  discon- 
certed them.  Perhaps,  after  all,  the  pack  would  not 
give  tongue.  Perhaps  they  had  only  the  pluck 
of  curs,  and  had  shrunk  back  when  threatened 
with  a  whip.  If  so,  what  a  fool  he  had  been 
to  waste  all  that  money  on  them,  to  surrender  to 
their  blackmailing  with  such  a  craven  fear !  He 
had  a  wild  hope  that  the  secret  which  they  held 
would  not  be  blabbed.  If  so,  he  might  build  him- 
self up  again  in  Virginia's  heart.  He  would  walk 
warily,  and  be  very  kind  to  her  and  play  the  game. 
Katherine  Goldstein  had  begged  him  to  do  that. 
That  was  her  farewell  message  to  him  before  his 
marriage.     "  Play  the  game,  Oliver,"  she  had  said. 

Then  Oliver  cursed  his  temperament — the  cause 
of  all  his  folly  and  misfortune.  Why  had  he  been 
born  with  such  a  temperament,  dragging  him  into 
perilous  adventures,  pulling  him  this  way  and  that, 
making  him  the  slave  of  his  own  desires  ? 

On  the  first  day  of  the  third  week  after  his 
defiance  of  John  Featherfew  he  had  a  shock  which 
made  him  feel  rather  sick  and  faint.  It  was  the 
sight  of  Mrs.  Perceval  coming  out  of  the  carpenter's 
shed. 

He  had  kept  his  promise  to  Virginia  not  to  go 


The  Outcast  359 

again  to  the  Percevals'  house.  He  could  pride 
himself  on  keeping  that  promise  at  least,  and  it 
had  not  been  easy.  She  had  written  several  notes 
to  him,  rebuking  him  for  his  absence. 

"  Our  bridge  parties  are  dull  without  you,  and 
boredom  creeps  over  me  again.  Why  do  you  shun 
my  amiable  society — just  as  we  were  getting  on  so 
nicely  ?  " 

He  had  answered  by  polite  notes,  pleading  hard 
work  at  his  novel,  but  she  did  not  accept  his 
excuses,  and  in  her  last  note  there  was  anger  and 
a  threat. 

"  I  see  you  desire  to  end  our  friendship.  Very 
well.  But  when  I  lose  a  friend  I  become  an  enemy. 
Do  you  know  how  very  dangerous  I  can  be  ? " 

He  had  not  answered  those  words,  and  now  he 
met  the  woman  again,  coming  out  of  the  car- 
penter's shed.  She  was  in  her  winter  furs,  and 
was  a  tall  and  beautiful  creature. 

He  lifted  his  cap  as  he  passed  with  a  swift 
stride,  and  she  gave  a  little  laugh  in  answer  to  his 
greeting,  as  though  very  much  amused.  He  did 
not  like  the  sound  of  that  laughter.  There  was 
something  cruel  in  it.  "  Do  you  know  how  very 
dangerous  I  can  be  ? "  He  remembered  those 
words,  and  they  worried  him.  What  was  she 
doing  in  Featherfew's  shed  ?  He  knew  that  Jock 
Featherfew  was  her  under-gardener.     And  remem- 


360     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

bering  that,  after  a  while  he  had  a  swift  vision  of 
his  peril. 

He  had  been  walking  for  half  an  hour  before 
that  vision  came  to  him.  Then  he  turned  sharply 
round  and  strode  back  to  The  Rookery.  He 
would  tell  Virginia  everything,  the  whole  miser- 
able, wretched  tale,  before  others  were  beforehand 
with  him.  But  at  the  garden-gate  he  met  Mrs. 
Perceval  again.  She  had  just  come  out  of  his 
house.  Her  face  was  rather  flushed,  but  she  was 
smiling. 

Seeing  Oliver,  she  stopped,  and  her  smile  changed 
to  that  light  laughter  which  had  jarred  upon  his 
ears. 

"  Good  afternoon,  Mr.  Oliver  Lumley.  I  hope 
you  are  quite  well," 

"  Very  well,  Mrs.  Perceval." 

"  I  am  so  glad.  I  have  just  been  having  a  little 
chat  with  Virginia.     Good-bye." 

He  did  not  answer,  but  walked  past  her  up  the 
gravel-path,  and  opened  the  front  door  with  his 
latch-key. 

It  was  five  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  and  the 
maid-servant  was  lighting  the  hall-lamp. 

"  Where  is  your  mistress  ?  "  asked  Oliver. 

"  She  has  gone  to  her  bedroom,  sir.  I  do  not 
think  she  is  quite  well." 

"  Not  well  ?  " 

"  She  asked  not  to  be  disturbed." 

The  girl  hesitated. 


The  Outcast  361 


"  I  think  Mrs.  Perceval's  visit  upset  her.  She 
has  just  gone  to  her  room  as  white  as  a  ghost." 

"  I  will  go  and  see." 

Oliver  went  slowly  upstairs.  But  on  the  landing 
he  stopped,  and  put  his  hand  over  his  ashen  grey 
face.  Then  he  opened  the  bedroom  door  and 
went  in. 

The  room  was  in  twilight.  He  noticed  through 
the  open  window  that  there  were  red  feathers 
in  the  sky.  That  meant  rain.  He  had  always 
known  rain  to  follow  a  sky  like  that  at  Windle- 
sham. 

Strange  that  he  should  think  of  it  now,  at  this 
awful  moment  of  his  life. 

Virginia  was  on  her  knees  upon  the  floor,  with 
her  arms  outstretched  upon  the  bed.  She  had 
not  heard  him  come  in.  She  gave  a  little  whim- 
pering moan. 

He  spoke  her  name  quietly. 

"  Virginia ! " 

She  raised  her  head  and  looked  at  him.  He 
saw  that  her  face  was  deadly  white.  She  put  one 
hand  upon  the  bedpost  and  seemed  to  lift  herself 
up,  and  stood  before  him,  silent,  with  her  eyes 
fixed  upon  his  face.     They  were  tragic  eyes. 

He  strode  forward  to  her  for  a  pace  or  two 
and  spoke  her  name  again  pleadingly.  But  she 
answered  in  a  clear,  sharp  voice  which  frightened 
him. 

"  Do  not  come  near  me." 


362     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

He  stood  quite  still,  not  knowing  what  to  do 
or  to  say. 

But  at  last,  after  what  seemed  like  a  long  time, 
he  said,  "  Has  Mrs.  Perceval  told  you  anything — 
anything  to  upset  you  ?     She  is  a  lying  woman." 

"  She  is  a  vile  woman,"  said  Virginia.  "  But  this 
time  I  think  she  did  not  lie.  I  think  she  explained 
the  mystery  of  what  has  been  toituring  me — I 
mean  the  mystery  of  those  payments,  and  of  your 
silence  about  them." 

She  spoke  with  extraordinary  quietude  and 
calmness,  but  suddenly  she  cried  out  in  a  pas- 
sionate voice : 

"  Oliver,  for  dear  God's  sake  tell  me  the  truth  ; 
I  mean  about  Alice." 

"What  about  Alice?"  said  Oliver.  The  words 
could  hardly  pass  his  lips.  His  tongue  was  parched. 
There  was  something  on  fire  in  his  brain. 

"  Mrs.  Perceval  made  a  terrible  accusation  against 
you.  If  it  is  untrue  I  will  go  down  on  my  knees 
to  you.  I  will  kiss  your  feet,  asking  for  forgive- 
ness, because  I  have  been  tempted  to  believe  in 
your  dishonour." 

"  If  it  is  true,  what  then  ?  "  asked  Oliver.  They 
were  stupid  words,  but  he  could  not  think  properly. 
He  only  felt  frightfully  sorry  for  Virginia  and  him- 
self. He  was  afraid  they  were  going  to  be  rather 
unhappy.  The  world  had  all  gone  wrong  with 
them — somehow. 

"If  it  is  true?" 


The  Outcast  363 

She  echoed  his  words  in  a  whisper. 

There  was  a  living  horror  on  her  face. 

For  a  few  moments  she  stared  at  him,  and  then 
she  spoke  with  a  swift  passion. 

'*  If  it  is  true  I  will  not  suffer  you  to  touch  me 
or  to  breathe  my  air.  If  it  is  true  you  are  shame- 
less and  horrible.  If  it  is  true  I  will  punish  you 
and  break  you." 

"  It  is  true,"  said  Oliver. 

He  went  down  on  his  knees  before  her,  pouring 
out  a  living  stream  of  words  in  self-excuse,  in 
remorse,  in  pleading,  in  extenuation.  He  was  a 
fool.  He  was  weak.  He  was  a  boy.  It  had  been 
a  mistake,  the  madness  of  a  moment,  the  tempta- 
tion of  the  devil.  If  she  would  forgive  him  this 
he  would  devote  his  life  and  soul  to  her.  He 
had  been  faithful  to  her  since  his  marriage.  He 
swore  that,  by  all  that  was  sacred.  If  she  would 
pardon  him  this  once,  he  would  live  and  die  for 
her. 

She  looked  down  upon  him  with  a  terrible 
severity.  « 

"  Once,"  she  said,  "  I  told  you  some  words  often 
on  my  father's  lips  :  '  Do  not  surrender  God  to  the 
enemy  for  the  sake  of  peace.  Never  forgive  a  sin 
which  is  not  atoned.  Punishment  ■fnust  go  before 
forgiveness!  I  will  not  forgive  until  you  have 
atoned.  Because  I  love  you  I  will  have  you 
punished." 

He  bowed  his  head. 


364     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

"  Strike  me  dead  !  "  he  said. 

"  You  know  that  I  cannot  strike  you,  because  I 
am  a  poor,  weak  invalid.  And  I  do  not  wish  your 
death.  I  wish  you  to  live  and  be  brave  and 
honourable,  so  that  I  may  love  you  as  I  used  to 
love  you — as  I  love  you  now,  as  God  knows." 

She  put  her  hand  on  his  head  as  he  knelt  before 
her.  Perhaps  she  was  unconscious  of  her  caressing 
touch,  for  she  said,  without  any  weakness  : 

"  I  shall  turn  you  out  of  my  house.  Then  you 
will  have  to  work  like  an  honest  man." 

He  started  to  his  feet  and  cried  out  that  she 
could  not  mean  those  words. 

"  By  our  dear  Lord,  I  vow  that  I  mean  them  ! " 
she  said.  "  I  cannot  breathe  the  same  air  with  you. 
Your  lies  and  deceit  poison  me.  Your  miserable 
hypocrisy  sickens  my  soul.  I  should  call  myself  a 
vile  woman  if  I  let  you  stay  inside  my  life.  I 
swear  that  I  will  turn  you  out,  if  I  have  to  call  in 
the  police  or  set  my  dogs  on  you.  They,  poor 
beasts,  have  been  faithful  to  me." 

"  You  are  mad,"  said  Oliver. 

"  Yes,  I  am  a  little  mad." 

"  If  you  do  what  you  say  you  will  be  as  cruel  as 
a  devil." 

"  I  will  be  more  cruel  to  myself  than  you." 

"  I  shall  hate  you,"  said  Oliver.  "  I  shall  hate 
you  for  your  hard  heart.  Good  God  !  I  thought 
you  as  gentle  as  a  dove." 

"  I  have  my  father's  heart  in  a  frail  body,"  said 


The  Outcast  365 

Virginia,  "and  it  was  a  man's  heart.  He  never 
flinched  from  duty." 

♦'  Duty  ? "  He  laughed  with  hollow  mirth.  "  Do 
you  call  this  duty  ?  " 

"Yes;  it  is  my  duty,  and  I  command  you  to 
leave  my  house  to-night." 

"  To-night  ?  " 

He  whispered  the  word. 

"  To-night.  See  ...  I  will  give  you  money  .  .  . 
It  is  here  in  a  purse  .  .  .  When  you  want  more  I 
will  not  refuse  you.  ...  I  will  make  you  an 
allowance  .  .  .  enough  to  keep  you  from  starvation, 
but  not  more  than  that  .  .  .  Take  it  and  go  from 
me,  for  I  will  not  have  you  in  this  house  another 
night." 

She  thrust  a  purse  before  him,  but  he  took  it  and 
flung  it  through  the  window. 

"  Damn  your  money ! "  he  said.  "  I  am  your 
husband  and  the  master  of  this  house." 

She  rang  the  bell  violently.  Oliver  heard  it 
pealing  in  the  kitchen  down  below. 

One  of  the  maid-servants  came  rushing  up  and 
opened  the  door  after  a  swift  knock. 

"  Mary,"  said  Virginia,  "  please  fetch  a  policeman 
at  once." 

The  girl  stared  from  the  wife  to  the  husband. 
She  was  amazed  beyond  words. 

"  Mary,"  said  Virginia  sharply,  "  run  for  a 
policeman.     Do  you  not  hear  me  ?  " 

"  You  need  not  trouble,  Mary,"  said  Oliver.     He 


366      Oliver's  Kind  Women 

turned  to  his  wife.  "  I  will  go,"  he  said ;  "  and  may 
God  have  mercy  on  you." 

"  And  on  you,"  said  Virginia,  "  and  on  the  child, 
Alice.  .  .  .  You  may  go,  Mary,  I  shall  not  want 
the  policeman." 

Mary  burst  into  tears  and  went  sobbing  down- 
stairs. She  could  not  understand  the  scene  between 
her  master  and  mistress.  But  she  knew  that  some- 
thing terrible  had  happened. 

Oliver  turned  to  go  from  his  wife's  room.  Then 
he  stopped  at  the  door  and  looked  back  at  her, 

"Is  this  our  parting?  Do  we  say  good-bye  for 
ever?" 

She  said,  "  I  do  not  know.  I  do  not  know. 
God  knows.  Perhaps,  if  you  cleanse  yourself — if 
you  atone — if  you  become  an  honest  man " 

He  strode  out  of  the  room  without  another 
word.  On  the  landing  he  stopped  to  listen.  He 
thought  he  heard  Virginia  sobbing.  He  half 
turned  to  go  back,  but  after  a  moment  he  went 
downstairs  and  into  his  study. 

It  was  quite  dark  now.  He  stayed  in  the 
darkness,  stock  still,  in  the  middle  of  the  room. 
For  half  an  hour  he  was  there  motionless.  There 
was  no  sound  in  the  house,  except  the  loud  ticking 
of  his  clock  upon  the  mantelpiece. 

Presently  he  went  out  into  the  hall,  listening 
intently.  The  servants  had  shut  themselves  in 
the  kitchen.  He  could  hear  the  faint  murmur  of 
their  voices.     No  doubt  they  were  talking  about 


The  Outcast  367 

that  scene  upstairs.  Soon  all  Windlesham  would 
be  talking. 

Very  quietly,  like  a  thief,  Oliver  took  down 
his  hat  and  overcoat,  and  put  them  on.  He  moved 
about  like  a  man  in  a  trance.  The  Persian  cat 
came  out  of  the  dining-room  and  rubbed  against 
his  leg.  He  stooped  down  and  stroked  it  for  a 
moment.  Then  he  went  out  of  the  house,  closing 
the  front  door  very  softly. 

The  moon  was  coming  up  behind  a  bank  of 
cloud.  It  cast  an  inky  shadow  behind  him.  He 
did  not  go  straight  to  the  gate,  but  moved  about 
the  small  square  lawn  under  his  wife's  bedroom 
window.  He  was  searching  for  something.  He 
was  looking  for  the  purse  which  he  had  flung  out 
of  the  window.  He  was  penniless,  and  unless  he 
found  the  purse  he  would  have  to  walk  away  some- 
where, anywhere.     What  did  it  matter  ? 

He  fumbled  about  a  flower-bed.  His  hands 
became  dirty  with  the  wet  mould.  Presently  he 
found  the  purse  and  thrust  it  into  a  side  pocket. 
Then  he  walked  across  the  lawn  to  the  garden 
gate. 

An  owl  was  hooting  on  the  gable  of  The 
Rookery,  or  in  the  ivy.  He  shuddered  at  the 
sound.  He  stared  up  at  his  wife's  room.  It  was 
in  darkness,  but  the  moonlight  played  about  the 
window.  He  thought  of  Virginia  inside  that  dark 
room,  on  her  knees,  sobbing.  The  gate  clicked 
behind  him  ;  he  was  out  in  the  road,  an  outcast. 


368     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

He  walked  like  a  drunken  man  in  the  direction  of 
the  station,  and  once  he  stopped  and  put  his  hands 
up  to  his  eyes,  which  were  scalded  with  tears. 
Once  he  moaned  aloud  miserably,  like  a  wounded 
man. 

That  evening  Oliver  Lumley  took  a  late  train  to 
London,  and  when  he  staggered  out  on  to  the 
platform  at  Paddington  he  looked  so  ill  that  a 
porter  gave  him  his  arm  and  helped  him  to  a  cab. 
He  drove  to  an  hotel  in  the  Strand. 


CHAPTER   XLV 

Philosophy  of  the  Old  School 

The  Dowager  Countess  of  Buntingford  quarrelled 
quite  seriously  with  Virginia,  and  then  kissed  her 
on  both  cheeks  and  said,  '*  My  bird,  if  you  think  I 
am  going  to  quarrel  with  you,  you  are  much  mis- 
taken. I  shall  not  rest  until  you  are  happy  again. 
Goodness  alive,  I  never  heard  of  such  a  thing  !  " 

The  old  lady  was  more  distressed  than  she  had 
been  for  many  years  when  Virginia  had  told  her 
the  secret  of  Oliver's  disappearance  from  Windle- 
sham.  It  was  two  weeks  before  she  suspected  that 
something  had  gone  wrong  in  The  Rookery,  and 
in  Virginia's  heart.  Oliver  had  been  away  often 
enough  before — to  Paris,  to  London,  and  upon 
other  trips — for  any  surprise  to  be  caused  among 
his  wife's  friends  during  the  first  week  or  two  of  his 
absence.  And  Virginia  explained  the  matter  very 
quietly  and  calmly. 

"  Oliver  has  gone  up  to  town  to  get  new  knowledge 
of  life.  Windlesham  is  not  wide  enough  for  his 
imagination." 

"  If  I  had  a  young  and  handsome  husband,"  said 
Miss  Purchase,  "  I  should  insist  upon  going  with 
24  369 


370     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

him.  There  is  temptation  at  every  street-corner  in 
London." 

"  Alas  !  and  in  every  lane  in  the  country,"  said 
Virginia. 

"  True,  too  true  ! "  said  Miss  Purchase,  shaking 
her  head.  "  Nevertheless  I  shall  be  glad  to  see 
your  husband  back.  Roving  husbands  make  un- 
happy wives." 

*'  Nonsense  !  "  said  old  Lady  Buntingford,  who 
invariably  contradicted  Miss  Purchase.  "  Give  the 
boy  a  bit  of  rope,  Virginia.  I  don't  hold  with  tying 
a  husband  to  one's  petticoat.  I  always  used  to  give 
perfect  liberty  to  Peregrine.  *  Have  a  good  time, 
my  dear,'  I  used  to  say,  '  and  when  you  come  back 
my  heart  will  be  warm  for  you.'  Gracious  Heaven  I 
Men  want  a  little  change  from  their  women  folk." 

She  looked  sharply  at  Virginia,  and  said,  "  I  don't 
like  to  see  you  so  pale,  my  dove." 

Virginia's  pallor  increased  day  by  day,  and  her 
eyes  seemed  to  become  larger  and  more  mystical. 
She  drooped,  and  could  find  no  strength  to  walk 
about  the  garden,  but  sat  for  hours  by  the  French 
window  of  her  drawing-room  with  her  hands  folded 
in  her  lap,  watching  the  birds  on  the  lawn.  Her 
maid-servants  noticed  with  alarm  that  she  lost  her 
vigilance  with  regard  to  dust  and  disorder.  She 
did  not  seem  to  care  for  the  beauty  of  her  house. 

It  was  Mary  the  parlour-maid  who  brought  this 
to  the  notice  of  Lady  Buntingford. 

*  I  do  believe  the  mistress   is   sickening.     The 


Philosophy  of  the  Old  School    371 

other  day  I  left  a  broom  in  the  library  and  she  did 
not  so  much  as  say  '  How  careless ! '  She  is  that 
quiet  she  makes  me  frightened." 

"  Child,"  said  Lady  Buntingford,  "  perhaps  the 
good  God  is  going  to  send  us  a  baby  to  play  with. 
That  would  make  us  very  happy." 

"  Oh,  my  lady  !  "  cried  Mary,  clasping  her  hands, 
"  I  never  thought  of  that." 

But  Lady  Buntingford  was  more  frightened  than 
Mary  when  she  spoke  one  day  to  Virginia  about  a 
dream-child  that  was  coming  to  The  Rookery  and 
was  answered  by  a  passion  of  tears.  Virginia 
flung  herself  down  upon  the  floor  and  laid  her 
head  in  the  old  lady's  lap  and  wept  so  that  her 
body  shook. 

"  Now,  then,  what  is  the  matter  with  the  wench  ?  " 
asked  Lady  Buntingford. 

She  put  both  her  hands  upon  Virginia's  head, 
and  kissed  her  hair,  and  said,  "  Hush,  my  pigeon, 
hush,  my  white  dove  ! " 

But  Virginia  did  not  cease  sobbing  until  the 
old  lady,  after  many  tender  little  cries,  pretended 
to  become  very  angry  and  scolded  her,  and  called 
her  an  hysterical  baggage. 

"  I  am  surprised.  Where's  your  self-control  ? 
Good  God,  my  bird,  you  will  drown  yourself  in 
these  silly  tears." 

Then  Virginia  knelt  up  and  thrust  her  hair  back, 
and  said,  "  I  am  a  fool,  and  the  most  unhappy 
woman." 


372      Oliver's  Kind  Women 

"  Unhappy,  be  hanged  ! "  said  Lady  Buntingford, 
who  was  unconventional  in  her  speech  when  stirred 
by  excitement.  "  You  have  got  a  beautiful  house 
and  a  charming  husband " 

"  I  have  no  husband.  He  has  gone  from  me  for 
ever." 

The  old  lady  gasped. 

Then  she  said,  very  drily,  "  Oh,  indeed.  Where's 
he  gone  to?  Have  you  buried  him  in  the  back 
garden  ?  " 

"  He  has  gone  out  of  my  life,"  said  Virginia  with 
a  little  moan. 

"You  mean  to  say  that  you  have  had  a  tiff? 
You  quarrelled  with  him  because  he  came  down  to 
breakfast  with  a  headache  and  a  bad  temper  ?  Is 
that  what  you  mean,  ma'am  ?  " 

"  It  was  a  tragedy,"  said  Virginia.  "  He  has 
broken  my  heart." 

"  I  know  those  tragedies,  my  squirrel.  They 
always  happen  in  the  first  year  of  marriage.  I 
once  broke  my  heart  because  Peregrine  tore  my 
lace  skirt  with  his  spur,  and  then  said  '  Damn.' 
Of  course  I  boxed  his  ears,  and  then  he  went 
up  to  town  for  a  week-end,  poor  dear." 

She  put  her  hands  on  Virginia's  shoulders  and 
said,  "  I  will  shake  you  if  you  are  such  a  silly 
fool,  lambkin.  Where  are  your  wits?  Where  is 
your  woman's  sense  ?  Oliver  has  gone  away,  has 
he  ?     Well,  fetch  him  back  again,  mighty  quick." 

But  when  Virginia  laid  her  heart  bare  and  told 


Philosophy  of  the  Old  School    373 

her  story  and  came  to  that  scene  when  she  had 
sent  Ohver  out  of  the  house  the  old  woman 
shook  with  rage. 

"  Damnation ! "  she  said,  "  here  is  folly  and 
wickedness  for  an  old  woman's  ears  !  You  ought 
to  be  whipped,  Mistress  Virginia.  Upon  my  soul, 
I  would  love  to  give  you  a  good  hiding.  ...  As 
for  that  Perceval  woman,  I  will  scratch  her  face 
the  very  next  time  I  see  her.  .  .  .  The  boy 
behaved  badly  with  Alice,  did  he  ?  Well,  that 
was  before  his  marriage,  and  he  was  faithful 
to  you  for  ever  afterwards.  Are  we  to  cast  our 
men  off  for  one  indiscretion  in  their  bachelor  days  ? 
Gracious  Heavens !  Peregrine's  infidelities  were 
past  counting.  I  shut  my  eyes  to  them  and 
refused  to  count.  Young  men  are  young  fools. 
You  don't  expect  them  to  be  archangels,  do  you  ? 
Now,  what  in  the  world  has  happened  to  that 
boy  Oliver  ?  Of  course  you  have  sent  him  straight 
to  the  devil.  That  is  nice  Christian  charity,  upon 
my  word !  Here  is  a  pretty  story  for  Miss 
Purchase  and  the  village  cats  ! " 

That  was  when  Lady  Buntingford  and  Virginia 
quarrelled. 

Virginia  drew  herself  up  very  straight,  and 
begged  Lady  Buntingford  to  remember  herself 
She  was  surprised  at  such  immoral  words. 
Oliver  had  sinned  and  he  must  be  punished. 
He  had  deceived  her  cruelly,  and  she  would  not 
tolerate    deceit    or    lies.     He    had    been    utterly 


374     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

demoralised,  utterly  lazy,  and  there  would  be  no 
chance  for  him  in  life  until  he  had  repented  and 
atoned.  She  had  determined  to  break  him,  in 
order  that  he  might  build  himself  up  anew.  Did 
Lady  Buntingford  think  that  a  wife  should 
tolerate  such  outrage  ?  To  sit  with  folded  hands 
while  her  husband  sinned  against  his  vows  and 
covered  his  wife  with  shame  and  dishonour  ?  She 
had  been  brought  up  in  a  different  school.  Her 
father  had  taught  her  not  to  surrender  God  for 
the  sake  of  peace,  not  to  forgive  sin  until  it  had 
been  punished. 

"  Your  father ! "  cried  Lady  Buntingford,  throwing 
up  her  hands.  "  I  remember  the  man.  A  hot- 
tempered,  hard,  unrelenting  old  humbug.  I  once 
danced  with  him,  and  he  kicked  me  on  the  shin. 
Most  characteristic  of  him,  my  dear." 

"  How  dare  you  speak  of  my  father  like  that  ?  " 

Virginia's  eyes  flashed  fire  at  the  old  woman. 

*'  Oh,  you  won't  frighten  me,  ma'am ! "  said 
Lady  Buntingford.  "  I  should  speak  plain  words 
about  the  devil  to  his  own  black  face.  I  thank 
God  I  come  of  a  good  old  English  stock.  .  .  .  All 
I  can  say  to  you,  my  babe,  is  that  you  have 
made  a  pretty  hash  of  things.  Get  your  boy 
back,  and  go  down  on  your  bended  knees  to 
him." 

"  When  I  have  brought  him  to  his  knees, 
before  me,  and  before  God,  when  he  has  cleansed 
himself  in  the  fire  of  contrition,  when  he  stands 


Philosophy  of  the  Old  School    375 

up  an  honest  man,  I  will  forgive  him  and  take 
him  back,"  said  Virginia,  very  solemnly. 

And  then  she  added  with  her  hands  to  her 
bosom  and  a  sharp  cry  of  pain,  "  But  my  poor 
heart  is  broken  and  will  never  be  mended." 

"  It  deserves  to  be  broken,"  said  Lady 
Buntingford.  "  I  never  heard  of  such  outrageous 
conduct.  If  I  had  behaved  to  Peregrine  like  you 
have  done  to  Oliver  he  would  have  flogged  me 
with  his  hunting-crop,  and  I  should  have  been  a 
better  woman  for  it." 

So  the  two  women  quarrelled,  and  for  a  week 
Virginia  did  not  see  Lady  Buntingford  again. 
The  old  woman  sulked  at  Buntingford  House 
and  was  very  fractious  with  her  servants.  But 
at  the  end  of  that  time  she  drove  over  to  The 
Rookery,  and  took  Virginia's  hands  and  said,  "  My 
pigeon,  I  am  not  going  to  quarrel  with  you.  I 
am  going  to  straighten  out  this  tangle,  so  help 
me  God." 


CHAPTER   XLVI 
The  Bitter   Cup 

Oliver  was  in  a  great  rage  with  life  when  he  lett 
Windlesham. 

Having  recovered  from  the  first  shock  of  his 
humiliation,  he  became  passionately  and  violently 
angry,  and  then,  when  the  fire  had  burnt  out, 
sullen.  Lurking  somewhere  in  his  brain  was  regret 
for  his  folly,  remorse  for  his  own  weak  and  selfish 
acts ;  but  he  ignored  those  whispering  voices,  and 
listened  only  to  the  cry  of  hatred  in  his  heart 
against  Virginia,  his  wife. 

He  could  hardly  believe  that  any  woman  could 
treat  her  husband  with  such  deliberate  cruelty. 
Yet  Virginia — a  saint  from  a  stained-glass  window 
— had  turned  him  out  of  her  house  !  A  shrew- 
woman  would  not  have  gone  so  far  in  her  revenge. 
Yet  Virginia — delicate,  gentle,  once  so  full  of 
tenderness — had  been  utterly  brutal  with  him  ! 

Very  well.  He  would  not  grovel  before  her. 
She  had  cast  him  off,  and  he  would  not  crawl 
back  to  her.  If  ever  he  went  back  it  would  be 
in  answer  to  her  pleading.  She  must  go  down 
on  her  knees  and  beg  forgiveness  before  he  would 
pardon  her  for  all  that  she  had  caused  him  to 
376 


The  Bitter  Cup  377 

suffer — for  this  burning  shame.     He  would  show 
her  that  he  had  the  stufif  of  manhood  in  him. 

From  his  hotel  in  the  Strand  he  wrote  to  her 
a  letter  heaped  with  reproaches. 

"All  my  faults,"  he  said,  "are  trivial  in  compari- 
son'withiyour  unforgiving  hardness — and  hardness  in 
a  woman  is  most  damnable  and  most  unpardonable. 
You  say  I  deceived  you.  Good  God  !  What  was  my 
deceit  (I  am  not  conscious  of  any)  to  yours  ?  You 
have  deceived  me  from  the  beginning.  I  thought 
you  a  gracious  wom.an  full  of  charity.  You  are  as 
unrelenting  as  a  religious  fanatic,  beyond  whose 
cruelty  the  devil  himself  cannot  go.  I  thought 
you  were  one  of  those  beautiful  wives  who  would 
overlook  the  indiscretions  of  a  husband  for  the  sake 
of  his  love  and  protection.  So  far  from  overlook- 
ing, you  have  played  the  spy  on  me,  and  listened 
to  the  slander  of  my  enemies." 

Then  he  launched  his  ultimatum. 

"You  will  suffer  more  than  I  shall.  I  can  hear 
the  buzz  of  the  gossipmongers  in  Windlesham — 
about  a  wife  without  a  husband.  Old  Miss  Purchase 
will  spread  the  news.  She  will  not  tire  of  the  scandal 
in  six  months.  Oh,  gossip  will  yap  round  your 
skirts  ! 

"  Perhaps  one  day  you  will  repent  of  your  hard- 
ness. You  will  be  weary  of  your  loneliness.  But 
I  give  you  this  warning.  Not  until  you  cry  out 
for  me,  not  until  you  beseech  me  to  come  back 
to  you,  not  until  you  pray  for  my  forgiveness,  not 


37^     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

until  you  have  humbled  yourself  to  the  depths  of 
the  humiliation  where  I  now  stand,  will  you  hear 
from  me  again. 

"When  you  have  that  message  for  me,  it  will  no 
doubt  be  forwarded  from  my  mother's  house  to  any 
place  where  I  may  find  a  lodging  or  a  friend." 

They  were  strong  words.  But  as  the  days  went 
by  there  were  hours  when  Oliver  Lumley  was  filled 
with  an  overwhelming  sense  of  pity  for  his  own 
miserable  situation,  and  had  a  shuddering  fear  of 
the  fate  that  was  closing  round  him. 

He  took  a  bed-sitting-room  in  the  Blackfriars 
Road — a  dismal,  wretchedly  furnished  lodging, 
which  seemed  to  be  haunted  by  the  ghosts  of 
other  poor  devils  who  had  been  his  predecessors 
there.  The  smell  of  their  stale  tobacco-smoke 
hung  about  the  curtains. 

It  did  not  brighten  his  spirits  when  his  drab 
of  a  landlady  told  him  that  the  last  gentleman  who 
rented  the  room  had  committed  suicide  with  a 
razor  borrowed  for  that  purpose  from  another 
gentleman  downstairs. 

"  'E  made  a  'orrid  mess,"  said  the  woman,  "  and 
it  took  me  a  deal  of  trouble  to  clear  up.  You 
see,  I  couldn't  get  the  stines  out  of  the  carpet, 
no'ow." 

She  pointed  to  some  dark  smudges  by  the  sofa. 

"  I  tried  turps  on  it,  but  it  wasn't  a  bit  of  good — 
the  dirty  devil  !  " 

In  the  bed-sitting-room  of  a  suicide  Oliver  sat 


The  Bitter  Cup  379 

for  many  hours  each  day,  like  a  hunted  man  who 
is  afraid  to  show  himself  in  the  light  of  day. 
Indeed,  that  idea  came  to  his  landlady,  who  asked 
if  he  had  done  anything  "  wrong."  She  didn't 
want  no  bother  with  the  police. 

He  laughed  at  that  and  reassured  her, 

"  I  am  only  down  on  my  luck.  But  as  long  as 
I  pay  you  in  advance  you  need  not  worry." 

"Yus,"  said  the  landlad}'',  "money  in  advance  is 
the  rule  of  this  'ouse,  and  don't  you  forgit  it,  young 
man,  or  out  you  goes." 

So  Oliver,  who  had  paid  four  weeks  in  advance, 
stayed  in,  trying  to  write  short  stories,  and 
desperately  anxious  to  avoid  old  friends,  who 
would  ask  him  awkward  questions,  and  grin,  as 
friends  do,  at  his  misfortune. 

But  his  writing  was  a  failure.  He  could  think 
of  no  other  plot  but  the  drama  of  his  own  misery. 
Often  he  found  himself  staring  at  the  black  stains 
on  the  threadbare  carpet,  close  to  the  horsehair 
sofa.  They  had  a  horrible  fascination  for  him. 
All  the  details  of  the  man's  suicide  haunted  his 
imagination.  The  gentleman  was  "  'orribly  pore," 
said  the  landlady.  They  found  three-halfpence  in 
his  pocket  when  the  police  searched  his  corpse — 
three-halfpence  and  some  pawn  tickets.  Oliver 
wondered  how  long  it  would  be  before  he  also 
came  down  to  his  last  three-halfpence.  Not  very 
long,  perhaps. 

He  saw  himself  within  easy  distance  of  it  after 


380     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

visits  to  Livvy  O'Brien  and  his  family.  For  three 
weeks  he  had  lived  utterly  alone  in  London,  speak- 
ing to  no  one  except  his  slatternly  landlady. 
But  one  afternoon  when  he  had  actually  finished 
a  short  story  and  sent  it  off  to  one  of  the  magazines 
which  used  to  accept  his  work,  he  had  an  irre- 
sistible yearning  for  human  intercourse — a  tre- 
mendous need  of  some  touch  of  sympathy. 

The  sound  of  Livvy's  laughter  seemed  to 
whisper  in  his  ears,  and  he  saw  her  dancing 
eyes  and  her  roguish  Irish  face.  Remembrance 
of  many  hours  he  had  passed  with  her,  of  her 
comradely  kindness,  of  that  evening  when  she 
had  emptied  her  purse  before  him,  and  of  that 
night  when  he  had  kissed  her  on  the  lips,  came 
thrilling    back    to    him.       Perhaps    Livvy  would 

lend  him no ;   he  thrust  back    that  tempting 

thought.  He  would  take  nothing  but  her  comrade- 
ship. 

He  went  round  to  her  rooms  in  the  afternoon, 
and  was  immensely  glad  to  find  her  at  home. 

She  opened  the  door  to  him  and  said,  "  Roly ! 
After  all  these  months  !  I  had  given  you  up  as 
one  of  my  lost  sheep," 

He  remembered  then  that  he  had  never  told 
her  of  his  marriage.  He  had  not  even  troubled 
to  write  a  line  to  her.  He  was  sorry  now  that 
he  had  been  so  forgetful. 

She  opened  the  door  wider,  and  said,  "The 
kettle  is  singing  on   the   hob.     You   are  just   in 


The  Bitter  Cup  381 

time  for  tea.  I  think  you  must  have  smelt  the 
muffins." 

He  took  her  hand  and  held  it  longer  than  he 
need  have  done. 

"You  look  five  years  younger,  Livvy,  Where 
have  you  been  gathering  those  roses  for  your 
cheeks  ?  " 

"  And  you  look  very  ill,"  said  Livvy.  "  Horribly 
ill,  Roly.  What  in  the  world  is  the  matter  with 
you  ?  " 

"  I  have  had  rotten  luck.  I  think  I  have  been 
quite  ill.  But  I  feel  better  at  the  sight  of  you, 
Livvy,  mavourneen." 

"  Flatterer  ! "  said  Livvy,  with  a  touch  of  her 
old  roguishness. 

"  Where's  Doris  ? "  said  Oliver,  following  her 
into  the  sitting-room. 

"  Doris  is  making  tiny  socks  and  Tom  Thumb 
clothes  for  a  little  angel  expected  in  a  naughty 
world." 

"  Good  Lord,  you  don't  mean  to  say  she  is 
going  to  have  a  baby  ?     Is  she  married  ?  " 

Livvy  pretended  to  be  shocked  at  such  a 
question. 

"  Young  man,  remember  your  manners  and  your 
morals.  Doris  Fortescue  is  now  Mrs.  Henry 
Higginbottom,  and  a  most  respectable  married 
woman  of  six  months'  standing,  with  a  semi- 
detached house  at  West  Dulwich.  She  met  him 
at  Birmingham,  where   she   was   in   '  The   Merry 


382     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

Peasant '  crowd.  He  wears  a  bald  head  and  a 
white  waistcoat,  and  travels  in  ladies'  underlinen," 

"  I  think  she  might  have  let  me  know,"  said 
Oliver.  "  I  would  have  sent  her  a  wedding-present. 
Good  little  Doris,  so  she  is  settled  in  life  at 
last ! " 

"Well,  of  all  the  audacity!"  cried  Livvy,  who 
was  poking  the  fire  under  the  kettle.  "  A  young 
man  disappears  from  London  for  goodness  knows 
how  long,  does  not  send  one  word  of  his  where- 
abouts to  his  true  and  trusty  friends,  and  then 
turns  up  coolly  and  says  'she  might  have  let  me 
know  ! ' " 

Oliver  was  becoming  suspicious. 

Livvy  was  trying  to  conceal  some  excitement, 
and  there  was  an  unusual  appearance  of  festivity 
in  her  rooms.  There  were  little  cakes  on  the 
tea-table,  and  a  pile  of  crumpets  on  the  hob  gave 
out  a  rich  aroma.  There  were  flowers  on  the 
mantelshelf,  and  in  a  big  vase  on  the  small  round 
table  in  the  window. 

"  Are  you  giving  a  tea-party  ?  Why  all  these 
preparations  ?  " 

"  I  am  expecting  a  friend,"  said  Livvy,  and  then 
laughed  and  blushed. 

"  A  friend  ?     Who  is  he  ?  " 

"  I  didn't  say  it  was  a  '  he.'  Why  not  a  '  she,' 
for  example  ?  " 

She  was  bending  over  the  flower-vase  now, 
breathing  in  the  fragrance  of  some  jonquils. 


The  Bitter  Cup  38 


o 


"Livvy,"  said  Oliver,  "jyou  are  not  married, 
are  you  ? " 

She  turned  round  and  cried  with  a  pretty  air 
of  surprise  : 

"  Married  !     What  put  that  into  your  head  ? " 

He  saw  a  ring  glinting  on  the  third  finger  of 
her  left  hand.  He  strode  forward  and  took  the 
hand  and  said,  "What  do  you  call  that?" 

"  I  may  be  mistaken,"  said  Livvy,  "  but  I  call  it 
a  ring." 

"  It  is  a  new  ring.  You  used  not  to  wear  it.  It 
is  an  engagement  ring." 

"  God  bless  me,  so  it  is  ! "  said  Livvy,  as  though 
she  had  just  received  a  revelation.  Then  her 
mockery  left  her,  and  she  clasped  Oliver's  hand 
and  said : 

"  Roly,  wish  me  luck.  I  shall  not  be  an  old 
maid  after  all !  " 

But  Oliver  was  strangely  depressed  by  this  news. 
He  was  annoyed  beyond  words  that  Livvy  should 
have  become  engaged  during  his  absence.  He 
had  come  back  to  her  rooms  expecting  her  to  cry 
for  joy  at  his  return,  perhaps  a  few  tears,  perhaps 
an  agony  of  despair  when,  very  gently,  he  would 
have  told  her  of  his  marriage,  perhaps  the  surrender 
of  her  heart  after  the  story  of  his  miserable  un- 
happiness,  and  of  his  separation  from  his  wife.  So 
she  had  not  waited  for  him  after  all !  He  felt 
more  lonely  and  more  miserable. 

"  I  wish  you  luck,"  he  said,  very  gloomily. 


384     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

Livvy  seemed  to  read  some  of  his  thoughts. 

"You  were  such  a  long  time  away,  Roly,"  she 
said  in  a  low  voice.  "  You  sent  no  word  to  me. 
I  did  not  think  you  would  come  back.  .  .  .  And  I 
was  growing  old  and  ugly  and  very  weary  !  " 

She  laughed  again,  as  though  joy  came  bubbling 
into  her  throat. 

"  My  play-actress  days  are  over.  Thank  God 
for  that !  No  more  Sunday  travelling,  no  more 
theatrical  lodgings.  No  more  managers  with  their 
insults  and  their  beastliness.  In  another  week, 
Roly,  I  shall  have  a  little  home  of  my  own." 

"  Who  is  the  man  ?  "  said  Oliver. 

She  was  listening  with  her  head  a  little  on  one 
side. 

There  was  a  sound  of  brisk  footsteps  on  the 
stairs,  and  a  bird -like  whistle  coming  higher. 

"  Here  he  is  !  " 

There  was  a  tattoo  on  the  door,  and  Livvy  darted 
across  and  opened  the  door  wide. 

"  Base  wretch  !     The  muffins  are  burnt." 

"  Blame  me  not.  My  heart  flew  faster  than  my 
feet,  O  lady  of  the  shining  eyes." 

A  tall,  broad-shouldered  young  man  put  his  arms 
round  Livvy  and  hugged  her  close  to  him. 

Over  her  hair  he  saw  Oliver,  and  said,  "  Shall 
our  caresses  be  made  in  the  public  eye?  Is  this 
modesty  ?     Is  it  respectable  ?  " 

He  winked  at  Oliver,  whom  he  had  never  seen 
before,  and  then,  releasing  Miss  Livvy  O'Brien,  said : 


The  Bitter  Cup  385 

"  Introduce  me,  my  dear." 

She  patted  back  her  hair,  and  put  her  hands 
upon  her  burning  cheeks,  and  having  recovered 
her  breath  a  little,  said  : 

"Dick,  this  is  Oliver  Lumley.  I  have  often 
spoken  to  you  about  him.  Roly,  this  is  Richard 
Pennington,  who  is  going  to  be  my  husband." 

"Glad  to  meet  you,  sir,"  said  Richard  Pennington, 
grasping  Oliver's  hand.  "  Livvy's  friends  are  my 
friends." 

He  went  down  on  his  knees  before  the  fire  and 
examined  the  toasted  muffins. 

"  Done  to  a  turn  !  Come,  let  us  eat,  drink,  and 
be  merry." 

During  tea-time  Mr.  Richard  Pennington  be- 
haved like  a  high-spirited  schoolboy,  and  ate  a 
prodigious  number  of  cakes  and  muffins.  He 
regretted  that  Oliver  had  such  a  poor  appetite, 
and  said  that  he  ought  to  fall  in  love,  for  it  was 
the  best  appetiser  in  the  world.  He  kissed  Livvy's 
hand  when  she  was  cutting  bread-and-butter,  and 
kissed  her  on  the  back  of  her  neck  among  her 
little  curls,  before  filling  the  teapot  with  hot 
water. 

Oliver  was  annoyed  with  the  fellow.  His 
overflowing  good-nature,  his  hearty  lauo^hter,  his 
incessant  stream  of  small  jokes,  jangled  the  nerves 
of  a  man  who  had  come  for  Livvy's  sympathy 
and  tenderness.  He  did  not  stay  long  after  tea, 
and   in   answer  to  Livvy's  questions  he  gave  but 


386     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

few  details  of  his  life  since  he  had  last  seen  her. 
Not  a  word  did  he  say  of  his  marriage. 

"  We  shall  be  delighted  to  see  you,  sir,  in  our 
httle  home,"  said  Mr.  Richard  Pennington.  "  We 
have  taken  a  house  on  Streatham  Hill,  303, 
Alexandra  Road.  You  will  know  it  by  the  love- 
light  in  the  windows." 

"  Thanks  very  much,"  said  Oliver. 

When  he  said  good-bye  he  took  Livvy's  hand 
outside  the  door  and  put  it  to  his  lips,  as  he  used 
to  in  the  old  days. 

"  Good  luck  and  God  bless  you,"  he  said. 

He  went  swiftly  down  the  stairs,  turning  once  to 
lift  his  hat  and  smile,  with  a  rather  wan  face,  to  the 
girl,  who  blew  a  kiss  to  him.  Then  he  went  out 
into  the  street  again  and  Melancholy  took  him  by 
the  arm  and  would  not  leave  him. 


CHAPTER   XLVII 

Nearing  the  End 

Oliver  decided  to  go  over  to  Streatham  Hill  and 
see  his  own  people,  though  he  was  afraid  to  tell 
them  of  his  tragedy.  Yet  he  knew  that  sooner  or 
later  they  must  know.  Their  letters  to  him  at  The 
Rookery  would  be  unanswered,  or  Virginia  would 
write  to  them  and  reveal  the  truth.  It  would  be 
better  for  him  to  break  the  news  first  and  explain 
his  side  of  the  quarrel,  before  Virginia  poisoned 
their  minds  against  him. 

He  was  in  an  emotional  mood  when  he  stood 
outside  the  front  door  of  the  red  brick  villa  into 
which  his  family  had  lately  moved.  On  the  way 
he  had  rehearsed  his  speech.  It  would  be  a  con- 
fession of  folly  but  also  an  accusation.  He  would 
make  them  pity  him,  whatever  their  measure  of 
blame,  because  he  would  show  how  hard  was  the 
nature  of  the  woman  with  whom  he  had  lived. 
His  mother  would  take  his  part.  She  would  see 
that  Virginia  was  more  at  fault.  By  the  grace 
of  God,  mothers  are  always  against  their  daughters- 
in-law. 

Even  his  father  would  have  no  patience  with  a 
wife  who  had  shut  her  heart  and  her  house  against 


388     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

the  husband  whom  she  had  sworn  to  love  and  obey. 
His  father  had  good  old-fashioned  ideas  upon  the 
marriage  vow. 

These  thoughts  put  courage  into  him,  and  he 
gave  a  sharp  rat-tat  to  the  door.  But  when  it  was 
opened  by  Galatea  he  saw  that  she  was  deadly 
pale,  and  weeping,  so  that  he  was  startled  and 
forgot  for  a  moment  his  own  tragedy. 

"  Oh,  I  am  glad  you  have  come  ! "  said  Galatea 
in  a  low  voice.     "  You  are  just  in  time." 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?  " 

"  Don't  you  know?  We  telegraphed  for  you.  .  .  . 
Father  is  dying." 

He  said,  "  Good  God  ! "  in  a  whisper,  and  then 
his  sister  burst  into  tears  and  dabbed  her  eyes  with 
her  handkerchief. 

"  Hush  !  "  said  Oliver.     "  Hush  ! " 

He  was  terribly  shocked.  On  his  way  home  he 
had  been  wondering  whether  he  could  ask  his 
father  to  give  him  the  shelter  of  the  old  roof,  or 
make  another  allowance  to  him  until  he  had  got 
on  to  his  feet  again.  Now  he  could  never  ask 
another  favour  of  the  man  who  had  drudged  for 
them  all,  and  who  had  never  refused  any  gift 
within  his  means. 

Galatea  took  him  by  the  hand  and  led  him  into 
the  front  bedroom  on  the  first  floor.  His  father 
lay  breathing  his  life  away.  A  doctor  was  watching 
him.  Mrs.  Lumley  was  holding  her  husband's  thin 
hand,  while  she  sobbed  quietly.     When  Oliver  came 


Nearing  the   End  389 

in  she  looked  up  at  him  through  her  tears  and  then 
wept  more  bitterly.  Horace  stood  by  the  bedside 
with  a  grave  face.  He  gripped  Oliver's  hand  for 
a  moment  and  whispered,  "  There  is  no  hope,  old 
boy." 

Oliver  bent  over  the  dying  man  and  said,  "Father, 
don't  you  know  me  ?  " 

Richard  Lumley  seemed  to  look  into  his  son's 
eyes,  struggled  a  little  as  though  to  speak,  and 
then  turned  his  head  sideways. 

There  was  silence  in  the  room  for  a  minute,  an 
intense  silence,  during  which  Oliver  held  his  breath 
and  did  not  move.  Then  the  doctor,  who  had  been 
listening  at  Richard  Lumley's  lips,  spoke  in  a  low 
voice  : 

"  He  is  dead." 

Mrs.  Lumley  and  Galatea  fell  on  their  knees  by 
the  bedside,  and  Horace  took  Oliver's  arm  and  led 
him  from  the  room. 

Outside  the  door  it  was  Oliver  now  who  burst  into 
tears.  The  shock  had  been  too  sudden  and  too 
great.  Coming  upon  the  top  of  his  own  wretched- 
ness it  quite  unmanned  him,  so  that  Horace  was 
alarmed  by  his  grief 

That  night  Oliver  stayed  late  and  sat  holding 
his  mother's  hand.  She  was  calm  now,  except  for 
occasional  gusts  of  tears,  and  spoke  of  her  husband 
continually,  as  though  it  comforted  her  to  praise  him. 

"  He  was  always  kind  and  patient.  Patient  when 
I  was  so  impatient,  Oliver !     He  devoted  his  life 


390     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

to  us.  He  worked  and  drudged  for  us  all  to  the 
very  last.  Sometimes  I  know  he  was  sad  because 
we  had  to  pinch  and  scrape  so  much.  He  wanted 
to  give  us  more  pleasure,  more  of  the  joy  of  life. 
Oh,  now  that  he  is  gone  I  know  how  much  I  loved 
him,  and  how  much  he  had  to  forgive  in  me." 

"Nonsense,  mother," said  Oliver  ;  "he had  nothing 
to  forgive  you.     It  was  I  who  always  troubled  him." 

Not  a  word  was  said  that  night  about  Virginia. 
Oliver's  family  imagined  that  he  had  come  in 
answer  to  their  telegram.  Galatea  forgot  that 
he  had  not  received  the  message,  and  had  come  by 
accident.  It  seemed  that  his  father  had  been  taken 
ill  the  night  before  with  pneumonia,  following  a 
sharp  chill  after  riding  outside  an  omnibus  on  a 
wet  night  when  coming  back  from  the  City. 

By  a  mere  chance,  Oliver  received  the  answer 
to  their  telegram.  Horace  had  gone  out  to  the 
undertaker's.  Galatea  and  her  mother  were  up- 
stairs in  the  death-chamber.  There  came  a  double 
knock  at  the  front  door,  and  Oliver  answered  it. 
He  guessed  at  once  that  the  telegram  had  come 
from  Windlesham.  He  opened  the  envelope  with 
a  strange  emotion.  On  the  slip  of  flimsy  paper 
were  the  words : 

"Oliver  is  in  London.  I  do  not  know  his 
address.  I  deeply  regret  to  hear  of  Mr.  Lumley's 
illness. 

"  Virginia." 


Nearing  the  End  391 

He  crumpled  up  the  paper  and  put  it  in  his 
pocket,  and  did  not  say  a  word  about  it  to  his 
family.  He  pretended  to  himself  that  he  did  not 
wish  to  add  to  his  mother's  grief  by  dragging  out 
his  own  miserable  secret. 

To  Horace  he  said  that  he  was  staying  in  town 
for  a  little  while  to  do  some  work.  Of  course  he 
would  stay  to  attend  his  father's  funeral. 

Horace  pressed  his  hand. 

"  We  must  stand  shoulder  to  shoulder." 

The  two  brothers  stood  shoulder  to  shoulder 
by  their  father's  grave  three  days  later,  and  with 
them  was  Charles  Hardy,  who  had  come  as  a 
friend  of  the  family.  Messrs.  Cutter  &  Bodger 
had  sent  a  representative  to  the  graveside  of  their 
old  employee.  He  was  a  ginger-haired  gentleman 
named  Biggs,  who  was  to  succeed  to  Richard 
Lumley's  job.  After  the  funeral  ceremony  he  was 
lugubriously  cheerful. 

"  It  has  passed  off  very  well,"  he  said.  "  There 
was  not  a  hitch  anywhere.  It  has  given  me  great 
pleasure  to  pay  my  last  respects  to  your  poor 
father,  gentlemen,  I  assure  you." 

He  shook  hands  with  Oliver. 

"  I  have  often  heard  your  poor  father  talk  of 
you,  Mr.  Oliver.  He  had  a  high  opinion  of  your 
mental  gifts.  Very  high.  '  My  literary  son,'  he 
used  to  call  you." 

He  laughed  in  a  hollow  voice,  and  said,  "  Well, 
I  will  trot  back   now,     I   shall   sit  on  your  poor 


392      Oliver's  Kind  Women 

father's  stool.  One  man  goes  down,  another  up. 
Strange  thing  life — isn't  it?" 

That  night  Horace  presided  over  a  discussion 
of  ways  and  means,  with  OHver,  Charles  Hardy, 
and  Galatea  in  the  room.  Mrs.  Lumley  was  in 
her  bedroom,  weeping. 

"  What's  to  be  done  ? "  said  Horace.  "  The  poor 
old  governor  was  the  bread-winner.  I  can't  afford 
to  keep  up  this  house  on  my  miserable  screw." 

He  looked  over  at  Oliver,  and  said,  "  We  must 
all  help.  I  suppose  we  can  count  on  your  assist- 
ance, old  man  ? " 

"  No,"  said  Oliver,  "  you  must  not  count  on 
me. 

There  was  a  silence  in  the  room.  Horace  raised 
his  eyebrows  and  said,  "  How's  that  ? " 

"  It  is  quite  simple,"  said  Oliver.  "  I  have 
separated  from  my  wife,  and  I  am  almost  pen- 
niless. In  a  little  while  I  shall  be  without  visible 
means  of  subsistence." 

He  laughed  bitterly  at  his  own  grim  jest. 

But  the  others  could  see  no  fun  in  it. 

For  a  time  they  were  stricken  into  silence. 
Then  Horace  and  Galatea  questioned  him  ex- 
citedly, but  he  would  give  no  details. 

"  It  is  no  use  raking  up  a  miserable  story." 

"This  is  the  last  straw,"  cried  Galatea.  "It 
will  break  mother's  heart." 

"We  must  keep  it  from  her,"  said  Horace, 
"Oliver  and  his  wife  will  make  it  up  again." 


Nearing  the  End  393 

"  We  shall  never  make  it  up  again,"  said  Oliver. 

"  Oh,  Oliver,"  said  Galatea,  "  what  have  you 
been  doing?  Virginia  is  the  sweetest  woman  I 
know.  If  you  have  quarrelled  it  must  be  your 
fault." 

"  Naturally  ! "  said  Oliver  harshly.  "  It  is  ahvays 
the  man's  fault." 

They  wrangled  with  each  other  with  their  nerves 
on  edge. 

Charles  Hardy  rose  and  put  his  back  to  the 
fire. 

"  It  is  no  use  throwing  words  about.  I  am 
tremendously  sorry  to  hear  of  Oliver's  new  mis- 
fortune. It  complicates  matters.  But  if  I  may 
regard  myself  as  one  of  the  family  " — he  looked 
over  at  Galatea  and  smiled  at  her — "  I  want  to 
propose  a  little  plan." 

"  Go  ahead,  old  man,"  said  Horace. 

It  was  a  simple  plan.  It  appeared  that  Hardy 
was  in  a  good  position  again  on  another  news- 
paper. The  job  seemed  secure  enough.  So  what 
was  the  good  of  waiting?  He  would  marry 
Galatea  as  soon  as  possible,  and  Mrs.  Lumley 
could  live  with  them. 

"But  what  about  Horace?"  said  Galatea. 

"  He  will  go  into  diggings,  my  dear,"  said  Horace 
quietly,  "and  be  very  thankful  to  know  that  his 
mother  and  sister  are  happy  in  a  new  home." 

"  I  could  not  bear  the  idea  of  your  living  alone," 
said  Galatea. 


394     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

She  turned  to  Charles  Hardy  and  clasped  his 
arm,  and  whispered  to  him. 

"  Perhaps  Horace  would  come  along  too,"  said 
Hardy  after  a  moment's  hesitation.  "  The  more 
the  merrier." 

But  Horace  shook  his  head, 

"  No  ;  when  you  take  a  wife,  Charles,  old  boy,  you 
don't  marry  all  her  relatives." 

"  Nonsense !  You  and  I  would  always  be  good 
pals.     You  will  be  our  paying  guest,  old  fellow." 

"  And  how  about  me  ? "  asked  Oliver,  with  an 
awkward  laugh.  "  You  don't  pity  me  in  my  lone- 
liness, Galatea  ?  " 

She  shook  her  head  at  him. 

"  You  must  go  back  to  Virginia." 

"  Not  as  long  as  I  live." 

Horace  and  Galatea  went  up  to  see  their  mother, 
to  tempt  her  to  come  down  to  supper,  and  Oliver 
was  left  alone  with  Hardy. 

"  Is  it  a  fact  that  you  have  quarrelled  with  your 
wife  ?  "  said  Hardy, 

"  She  has  quarrelled  with  me," 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do,  then  ? " 

"  God  knows," 

Hardy  puffed  at  a  pipe. 

Presently  he  leant  forward  and  tapped  Oliver  on 
the  knee. 

"  Look  here,  take  a  word  of  advice  from  an  old 
friend  and  a  future  brother-in-law." 

"  What  is  that  ?  " 


Hearing  the  End  395 

"  Pull  yourself  together.  Show  that  you  have 
some  grit  in  you.  Sink  or  swim  by  yourself.  And 
for  God's  sake  don't  rely  on  other  people  to  help 
you  over  the  stiles." 

Oliver's  face  was  scarlet. 

"  Like  most  people  who  give  advice  you  are 
damned  impertinent." 

"  1  am  sorry  you  take  it  like  that,"  said  Hardy 
very  calmly.  "  A  few  plain  words  do  no  harm  at 
times." 

"  Keep  your  plain  words  to  yourself,"  said  Oliver, 
"or  I  shall  be  tempted  to  knock  them  between 
your  teeth." 

"  Steady  !  "  said  Hardy.  "  We  went  to  your 
father's  funeral  to-day,  and  there  is  a  widow  up- 
stairs." 

Oliver  swallowed  his  rage,  for  at  that  moment 
his  mother  was  brought  down  by  Horace  and 
Galatea.  She  came  up  to  him  and  clasped  him  in 
her  arms  and  cried  again.  It  was  a  melancholy 
evening,  and  Oliver  had  no  further  conversation 
about  his  own  affairs. 

On  the  doorstep,  after  he  had  kissed  his  mother 
and  sister,  Horace  gripped  his  hand  and  said, 
"  When  shall  we  hear  from  you  again  ?  Let  us 
know  how  things  go." 

"  You  may  not  hear  from  me  for  some  time," 
said  Oliver.  "  Anyhow,  don't  be  afraid;  I  am  not 
going  to  sponge  on  you  again." 

He  thrust  his  hand  into  his  pocket  and    said, 


39^     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

"  Look  here,  put  this  towards  the  funeral  ex- 
penses." 

He  handed  a  few  sovereigns  to  Horace,  who 
stared  at  him  in  surprise. 

"Don't  you  want  it  yourself?  Won't  it  leave 
you  rather  hard  up  ?  " 

"  That's  all  right !  Good-bye.  Look  after  the 
mater." 

He  walked  away,  turning  back  once  to  wave  his 
hand  to  Horace,  who  stood  on  the  doorstep  in  the 
light  that  filtered  out  from  the  front  door. 

"  It's  getting  very  near  the  end,"  said  Oliver, 
striding  away  into  the  darkness. 


CHAPTER    XLVIII 

The  Rescue 

The  end  had  very  nearly  come  when  Oliver  met 
Lady  Goldstein  on  the  Thames  Embankment. 

It  was  a  noble  day  in  January.  A  keen  west 
wind  was  whipping  the  river,  and  the  sun  had 
put  a  touch  of  gold  on  every  ripple.  The  sky 
was  pearl  grey,  and  through  a  vague  mist  over 
Blackfriars  Bridge  the  dome  of  St.  Paul's  was 
suspended  in  space  like  a  white  balloon.  The  great 
buildings  along  the  Embankment  had  a  glamorous 
light  upon  them.  An  incessant  stream  of  motor- 
cars swept  round  the  long  curve  of  the  roadway. 
One  heard  the  pulsing  heart-beat  of  the  great  city 
and  the  vague  murmur  of  its  million  voices. 

Oliver  stood  between  the  eternal  smile  of  two 
bronze  sphinxes  and  the  shadow  of  that  "  great 
rose-marble  monolith,"  called  Cleopatra's  Needle, 
which  once  saw  the  splendour  of  Egypt  under 
the  magnificent  Pharaohs  and  was  witness  of  the 
ruin  of  ancient  dynasties. 

Now  the  seagulls  screamed  about  it  and  swooped 
about    it.     They    were    crying    for    food,    shrilly, 
plaintively.      The    flutter    of    their    white    wings 
whispered  about  the  obelisk. 
397 


39^     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

Up  and  down  the  pavement  on  each  side  of  a 
booth  on  wheels  placed  below  one  of  the  smiling 
sphinxes  shuffled  groups  of  men  and  women. 
The  sunshine  had  not  warmed  their  thin  blood. 
The  wind  did  not  whip  it  into  the  warmth  of 
life.  Their  faces  were  pallid,  their  lips  blue.  In 
their  eyes  was  the  fierce  light  of  hunger. 

One  of  the  men  was  slapping  his  chest  with  a 
clawlike  hand,  and  it  gave  out  a  hollow  sound. 
Another,  leaning  against  the  pedestal  of  the  sphinx, 
coughed  so  that  his  whole  body  shook  convulsively. 
With  quick,  shuffling  steps  a  man  came  padding  up 
the  Embankment,  in  broken  boots  tied  up  with 
string.  He  clutched  his  rags  about  him,  as  though 
the  wind  might  tear  them  from  him  and  send 
them  fluttering  away. 

"  My  Gord  !  "  he  coughed,  "  thought  I  was  late 
for  the  bloomin'  banquet ! " 

The  women  were  in  a  separate  group.  Their 
faces  had  been  branded  in  the  torture  chambers  ol 
life.  Out  of  their  lack-lustre  eyes  there  stared 
despair. 

One  of  them  stood  upright  against  the  parapet 
of  the  Embankment.  Her  head  was  wrapped  in 
a  drab  shawl,  her  filthy  rags  were  tied  round 
with  a  bit  of  rope.  She  stood  quite  still  and 
lifeless.  She  might  have  been  a  mummy  taken 
from  its  case  and  placed  below  Cleopatra's  pillar. 

Inside  the  booth  on  wheels  a  man  with  a  white 
apron  round  his  waist  took  off  the  lid  of  a  stew- 


The  Rescue  399 


pan,  and  a  rich,  fat  fragrance  stole  upon  the 
wind,  ft  set  the  seagulls  screanning  with  a  new 
agony  of  desire.  It  made  the  nostrils  of  a  hundred 
hungry  men  quiver  in  an  ecstasy  of  expectation. 
Some  of  them  dribbled  at  the  mouth.  They 
formed  up  in  a  long  queue,  pressing  close  upon 
each  other's  heels. 

Oliver  Lumley  stood  watching  them.  Although 
he  was  not  in  rags  (though  his  clothes  were 
getting  shabby)  his  face  had  a  family  likeness  to 
these  claimants  for  a  free  meal.  Like  theirs,  it 
was  unshaven  ;  like  theirs,  it  was  gaunt,  with 
sharp  cheek-bones.  His  eyes  were  sunken  in 
the  sockets,  and  stared  out  sullenly.  He  had 
the  look  of  a  broken  man. 

He  turned  slowly  towards  the  end  of  the  queue, 
when  suddenly  a  hand  was  placed  upon  his  arm, 
and  a  voice  said  : 

"Oliver!  .  .  .  Oliver  Lumley!" 

He  started,  and  turned  round,  like  an  animal 
caught  in  a  trap,  and  stared  into  the  eyes  of 
Katherine  Goldstein. 

"  I  am  not  Oliver  Lumley,"  he  said,  and  turned 
away. 

But  Katherine  put  her  hand  on  his  arm  again. 

"Oliver,  I  insist  upon  speaking  to  you." 

"  It  is  not  Oliver,"  he  said  again.  "  You  are 
mistaken  in  your  man." 

"  Do  not  talk  rubbish,  if  you  please,"  said  Lady 
Goldstein,   and   then  looking  into   his   face   with 


400     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

eyes  stricken  with  pity,  she  said,  "  Roly,  what  has 
happened  to  you  ?     For  Heaven's  sake  tell  me." 

"  I  am  going  to  feed  with  the  beasts,"  he  said 
sullenly.  "If  you  interrupt  me  I  shall  be  too 
late." 

"  Come  away !  "  said  Katherine.  "  Come  away  ! 
...  I  will  give  you  something  to  eat,  Oliver." 

She  held  on  to  his  arm,  but  he  said  : 

"  Do  not  touch  me.  You  do  not  know  where 
I  slept  last  night.  It  was  where  the  fleas  dance 
and  hold  their  merry  revels." 

She  took  her  hand  away  quickly. 

"  Let  us  move  on." 

"  Do  you  stand  between  me  and  my  soup  ? " 

"  You  want  more  than  soup.  You  want  a 
friend  as  well  as  food.     I  can  see  that." 

"  A  friend  ?  " 

He  laughed  bitterly. 

"  I  am  nothing  but  an  Appetite.  Give  me  food 
and  I  will  not  ask  for  friendship." 

"  Have  you  come  down  to  that  ?  " 

Katherine  in  her  white  furs  stared  at  this  un- 
shaven, shabby  man  as  though  she  saw  a  ghost 
in  the  broad  daylight  on  the  Thames  Embank- 
ment. 

"People  are  looking  at  us,"  said  Oliver.  "For 
your  sake  I  will  move  on." 

He  strode  at  her  side  for  a  few  yards  and  then 
stopped  and  said,  "  Leave  me.  I  am  not  fit  to 
be  in  your  company." 


The  Rescue  401 

"  My  dear  boy,"  she  said,  with  an  attempt  at 
sprightliness,  "  you  have  got  to  bear  my  company 
for  an  hour  or  two  at  least." 

She  waved  her  hand  to  a  passing  taxi.  It 
swerved  round  and  pulled  up  by  the  kerbstone. 

"  Now  get  in  quickly.     No  fuss,  Oliver." 

He  stumbled  in  before  her,  forgetting  the  rules 
of  courtesy.     She  spoke  to  the  driver. 

"  Michel's  Restaurant,  Greek  Street,  Soho." 

Then  she  sat  down  opposite  Oliver,  and  her 
eyes  roved  over  his  haggard  face. 

"You  have  given  me  a  fright.  .  .  .  What  is 
the  meaning  of  this  ?  .  .  .  I  could  not  believe  my 
eyes  when  I  saw  you  looking  so  miserable  .  .  . 
among  all  those  awful  people." 

"  Those  people  ?  They  are  my  brothers.  We 
belong  to  the  brotherhood  of  misery." 

In  Trafalgar  Square  he  put  his  hand  to  the 
door  and  said  : 

"  Let  me  get  out.  I  am  not  your  prisoner. 
I  will  not  have  your  pity  nor  your  charity." 

"  My  dear  Roly,  surely  we  can  have  a  little 
luncheon  together?  I  am  very  bored  to-day.  I 
desire  your  company." 

His  pale  lips  curved  into  a  smile. 

"  You  have  not  lost  your  wilfulness." 

Presently  M.  Michel  was  bowing  to  them  both. 

"  Bonjour,  monsieur  et  madamc  !  Enchant^  de 
vous  voir ! " 

They  sat  down  at  the  very  table  in  the  corner 
26 


402     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

where,  many  months  ago,  Katherine  had  smiled 
to  him  through  the  smoke-wreaths  of  her  cigarette. 

"  I  am  ashamed,"  said  Oliver. 

He  looked  at  his  dirty  hands,  his  black  finger- 
nails. He  passed  his  hand  over  his  unshaven 
chin. 

"  I  am  ashamed,"  he  said  again  in  a  low  voice. 

Katherine  was  studying  the  bill  of  fare. 

"  Potage,  Filets  de  sole  Joiiiville,  Selle  de  Mouton 
aux  haricots  verts.  Sounds  pretty  good,  doesn't 
it?" 

"  It  sounds  like  heaven,"  said  Oliver. 

He  tried  to  eat  decently  and  to  restrain  his 
ravenous  appetite.  He  tried  to  behave  like  a 
gentleman  and  not  like  a  wolf  with  lean  ribs. 

Katherine  asked  him  no  questions,  and  supplied 
the  conversation.  She  gave  him  news  of  old 
friends.  Grattan  was  out  in  Egypt.  Frank 
Luttrell  was  doing  good  solid  work  for  The 
Morning ;  Little  Frolenko  was  fiddling  in  St. 
Petersburg.  She  had  seen  a  very  good  play  last 
night.  The  plot  v/as  most  ingenious,  until  it  went 
to  pieces  in  the  third  act.  ...  It  took  her  half  an 
hour  to  tell  the  plot,  and  Oliver  missed  the  point 
of  it.  Several  times  he  laid  down  his  knife  and 
fork  to  gaze  at  her. 

"  You  are  more  beautiful  than  ever." 

She  said,  "Don't  interrupt.  .  .  .  The  second  act 
was  quite  the  best." 

At  another  time  he  said  : 


The  Rescue  403 

"  It  would  have  been  better  if  I  had  stayed 
on  the  Embankment." 

"Did  I  tell  you  about  Gilbert  Verney?"  she 
asked.  "He  has  married  a  penniless  girl,  after 
all." 

•'  Lucky  devil,"  said  Oliver. 

Then  when  the  coffee  was  brought  and  he  was 
smoking  a  cigarette,  she  leaned  her  arms  on  the 
table  and  looked  into  his  face  and  said,  very 
quietly : 

"  Now  tell  me  what  has  happened.  Where  is 
your  wife  ?  " 

His  hand  trembled  as  he  put  down  his  cup. 

"  Must  you  have  the  wretched  story  ?  " 

"  I  must." 

"  It  is  fair.  You  have  fed  me  and  I  will 
pay  for  my  meal  with  the  tale.  Oh,  it  is  a  merry 
yarn ! " 

She  said,  "  Begin  ! "  and  after  a  whiff  of  his 
cigarette  he  said  : 

"  I  will  go  backwards.  I  will  begin  with  last 
night  when  I  slept  in  a  coffin." 

"  In  a  coffin  ? " 

"  We  were  all  in  coffins — free  of  charge — I  and 
my  brothers  of  the  chain.  It  was  in  a  free  lodging- 
house  down  by  the  docks.  I  was  the  last  man  in. 
In  another  minute  I  should  have  missed  my  bed. 
'  Luck  ! '  I  said,  but  perhaps  it  would  have  been 
better  otherwise.  I  might  have  died  in  the  night. 
The  wind  cut  like  a  knife  under  Waterloo  Bridge. 


404     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

.  .  .  But  it  was  warm  in  my  hell,  with  the  boxes 
all  in  a  row.  The  steam  from  human  bodies 
rose  up  in  rank  incense.  The  foul  breath  of  my 
fellow  slaves  poisoned  the  air  and  made  it  stifling. 
Do  I  sicken  you  ?  " 

"  Go  on  !  "  said  Katherine. 

"  Some  of  the  men  had  thrown  back  their  oil- 
cloth blankets.  Their  bodies  were  bare.  In  the 
dim  light  their  ribs  showed  out.  They  were 
like  skeletons  in  those  long  black  boxes — living 
skeletons  in  open  coffins.  I  did  not  sleep.  I  lay 
awake  listening  to  strange  sounds.  The  sounds 
of  sneezing,  coughing,  wheezing,  the  piping  of  a 
man's  bronchial  tubes,  the  whimpering  of  a  boy, 
the  groaning  of  a  man  with  rheumatism  hardly 
ceased  in  the  night.  Once  there  was  silence,  but 
presently  I  heard  a  whisper.  Some  voice  said, 
'  My  God ! '  The  whisper  seemed  close  to  my 
ear,  and  I  shivered.  ...  It  was  my  own  voice.  .  .  . 
Then  the  sounds  began  all  over  again,  the  sneezing, 
the  coughing,  the  gurgling.  I  w^as  glad  to  get  out 
in  the  dawn.  Then  hunger  came  to  meet  me, 
and  stuck  a  sharp  sword  into  my  side  and  twisted 
it.  .  .  .  Have  you  ever  been  hungry  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  but  not  like  that." 

"  No  ;  not  like  that.  ...  It  stabs  you  with  hot 
knives." 

"  Begin  at  the  beginning,"  said  Katherine  ;  "  this 
is  the  end  of  the  story." 

"  The  beginning  ? " 


The  Rescue  405 

He  threw  the  fag-end  of  the  cigarette  into  the 
dregs  of  his  coffee,  where  it  hissed  and  went  out. 

"  There  is  no  beginning.  It  goes  back  to  all  my 
unknown  ancestors,  who  bequeathed  me  their 
damned  weakness  and  their  vice  and  their  folly. 
Curse  them  ! " 

"  Come  to  recent  history,"  said  Katharine. 
"  Your  marriage,  for  example.  What  about  your 
wife  ?  ■' 

"  My  wife?  ....  I  have  no  wife.  In  the  country 
there  is  a  woman  who  bears  my  name.  I  hate  her 
worse  than  I  hate  death." 

Katherine  said  :  "  Hush  !  tell  me,  tell  me." 

With  his  elbows  on  the  table  and  his  chin 
propped  on  the  knuckles  of  his  folded  hands,  he 
told  her  the  story  of  his  married  life.  He  did  not 
spare  himself  very  much.  He  laid  bare  his  folly, 
his  selfishness,  and  his  sin.  But  he  pleaded 
extenuating  circumstances.  He  had  meant  well. 
He  had  loved  his  wife.  He  had  worshipped  her, 
even  until  she  turned  on  him  and  cast  him  out. 
Now  he  hated  her  because  of  her  hardness,  and 
because  of  his  degradation.  She  had  deliberately 
sent  him  to  death  and  the  devil. 

Well,  that  was  his  story.  One  of  life's  little 
ironies,  a  rare  jest  for  ladies'  tea-tables.  Now  he 
must  be  going — back  to  a  den  where  he  addressed 
circulars  at  sixpence  a  thousand — when  luck  put 
them  in  his  way.  But  there  was  a  keen  competi- 
tion. 


4o6     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

"  Honest  work,"  he  said,  "  but  it  makes  your 
hand  shake  like  the  palsy,  makes  you  blear-eyed, 
and  gives  you  a  frightful  craving  for  drink." 

"  You  have  not  yielded  to  that  craving  ? "  said 
Katherine,  drawing  a  quick  breath. 

"  Not  yet.  But  I  am  coming  to  it.  One  day  I 
shall  plunge  into  the  burning  lake  to  slake  my 
thirst.     We  all  go  that  way  sooner  or  later." 

She  said,  "  You  shall  not  go  that  way,  Oliver." 

Then  she  put  her  hand  out  and  laid  it  upon  his 
sleeve. 

"  Listen  to  me.  You  have  been  frightfully 
foolish,  and  worse  than  that.  You  will  not  deny 
that  you  deserved  some  punishment." 

"  I  have  been  flogged  by  fate." 

"  Yes  ;  you  have  been  punished.  But  have  you 
not  taken  it  like  a  man  ?  Oh,  surely,  Oliver,  you 
have  taken  it  pluckily,  and  like  a  gentleman  ?  I 
admire  you  for  that." 

"  You  admire  me  ?  " 

He  laughed  mirthlessly,  and  said,  "  Then  you 
admire  a  weak  devil  who  has  been  broken  on  the 
wheel  of  life  and  who  whimpers  at  his  torture." 

Katherine  would  not  admitthat  he  had  whimpered. 
She  tried  to  raise  his  pride  by  pretending  that  he 
had  played  the  game  and  taken  his  licking  well 
and  shown  grit. 

But  he  shook  his  head  moodily,  and  said,  "  I 
have  got  no  grit  in  me.  I  am  only  aflame  with 
hatred  for  the  woman  who  calls  herself  my  wife." 


The  Rescue  407 

Katherine  said,  "  That  is  the  first  untrue  thing 
you  have  said.  You  think  you  hate  her,  because 
you  love,  and  yearn  for  her.  You  are  tremendously 
sorry  for  all  that  you  have  done  to  cause  her  sorrow. 
It  is  only  your  pride — I  do  not  condemn  it — which 
prevents  you  from  going  back  and  asking  her 
forgiveness." 

"  I  swear  to  you,"  said  Oliver,  "  that  I  will  die 
by  slow  starvation  rather  than  go  down  on  my, 
knees  to  her." 

"  Nobody  wants  you  to  go  down  on  your  knees, 
my  dear  boy,"  said  Katherine  in  a  motherly  way. 
"  We  don't  do  that  sort  of  thing  nowadays.  But 
I  shall  be  glad  when  you  take  her  in  your  arms 
again." 

"That  will  never  happen,"  said  Oliver;  but  his 
voice  trembled. 

That  night  he  lay  on  a  sofa,  to  his  own  great 
amazement,  in  Francis  Luttrell's  flat.  In  spite  of  his 
refusals  and  his  shame,  Katherine  had  carried  him 
away  in  a  taxicab  to  Shaftesbury  Avenue,  where 
Luttrell  was  writing  an  article  for  his  next  day's 
paper.  He  rose  in  amazement  when  his  visitors 
arrived,  and  stared  first  at  Oliver  and  then  at 
Katherine  in  a  bewildered  way. 

"  Frank,"  said  Katherine,  very  briskly,  "  Oliver 
Lumley,  whom  you  know,  has  had  a  bad  stroke 
of  luck.  He  has  come  right  up  against  it.  I 
want  you  to  put  him  up  for  a  week,  and  ask 
no  questions.     Is  that  agreed  ?  " 


4o8     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

Frank  Luttrell  held  out  his  hand  to  Oliver. 

"  I  have  known  ill-luck  myself.  I  shall  be 
delighted  if  you  will  make  these  rooms  your  own." 

"  Well-played,  Frank  ! "  cried  Lady  Goldstein. 

"  I  am  ashamed,"  said  Oliver.  "  This  is  my  last 
humiliation." 

He  sat  down  in  a  chair  and  burst  into  tears. 


CHAPTER    XLIX 

Two  Women 

Virginia  had  gone  to  Buntingford  House.  It 
was  far  enough  away  from  Windlesham  to  elude 
Miss  Purchase  and  the  gossip  hunters,  and  the 
old  mistress  of  the  house  had  lulled  any  suspicion 
that  might  be  aroused  by  what  she  was  pleased 
to  call  "  tarradiddles." 

She  had  driven  round  on  several  days  in  succession 
to  drink  tea  with  Virginia's  friends  and  to  spread  a 
report  that  Oliver  was  travelling  abroad  for  the  sake 
of  his  health. 

"  The  poor  fellow  was  very  much  run  down,"  said 
Lady  Buntingford.  "  I  think  Windlesham  lies  too 
low  for  him,  and  the  exhalations  of  the  river  affect 
his  lungs.  It  is  very  hard  on  a  young  married 
couple — so  devoted  to  each  other  as  our  dear 
Virginia  and  Mr.  Oliver." 

"  And  when  the  dear  child  is  in  a  delicate  state 
of  health,  too,"  said  one  of  the  ladies,  "  When  will 
Mr.  Lumley  be  back  ?  " 

"Quite  soon  now,"  said  Lady  Buntingford.  "  In 
his  last  letter  he  wrote  in  the  best  of  spirits." 

Virginia  was  unconscious  of  her  old  friend's 
imaginative  flights.  She  was  conscious  of  very 
409 


41  o     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

little  that  was  happening  about  her.  The  day 
after  her  arrival  at  Buntingford  House  she  was 
taken  ill  with  a  nervous  attack,  and  by  the  doctor's 
orders  had  to  lie  in  bed  and  remain  very  quiet. 

"  She  seems  to  be  suffering  from  some  shock," 
said  the  doctor.  "  There  are  all  the  symptoms  of  a 
nervous  breakdown.  She  ought  not  to  be  worried 
by  visitors." 

"  And  she  shall  not  be,"  said  Lady  Buntingford, 
"  even  if  I  have  to  lower  the  portcullis  to  keep 
'em  out." 

She  kept  out  even  Miss  Purchase,  who  drove 
over  from  Windlesham  one  day  in  a  hired 
brougham. 

"  I  regret,  my  dear  Penelope,"  said  the  old  lady, 
"that  by  Dr.  Hogg's  strictest  instructions  she 
may  not  receive  visitors.  I  am  very  much  grieved 
to  tell  you  this,  but  there  is  tea  laid  in  my 
sitting-room,  and  you  will  find  all  the  weekly 
papers." 

"  But,  my  dear  Susan,"  said  Miss  Purchase,  "  I 
am  not  a  visitor:;  I  am  one  of  Virginia's  most 
intimate  friends." 

"  It  is  just  her  intimate  friends  from  whom  I 
am  guarding  the  child,"  said  Lady  Buntingford 
firmly.  "  Now,  I  trust,  my  dearest  Penelope,  that 
you  will  not  argue  the  matter.  The  one  thing 
that  makes  me  lose  my  manners  is  argument." 

"  Believe  me,  Susan  Buntingford,"  said  Miss 
Purchase   with   dignity,   "  that   I    do   not  intrude 


Two  Women  411 

myself  where  I  am  not  desired.  I  wish  you  a 
very  good  afternoon." 

It  took  all  Lady  Buntingford's  graciousness  to 
prevail  upon  the  little  lady  to  stay  to  tea. 

As  the  days  passed  the  old  Countess  became 
very  anxious  about  Virginia.  She  seemed  to  have 
lost  all  strength,  and  to  be  weeping  herself  into  the 
grave.  Often  at  night  when  Lady  Buntingford,  in 
a  dressing-gown  and  with  a  night-cap  tied  over 
her  white  hair,  crept  into  her  room,  she  was  shocked 
to  hear  Virginia's  sobs  and  to  find  her  pillow 
wet  with  tears. 

But  what  was  more  shocking  to  her  was 
Virginia's  absolute  refusal  to  go  in  search  of  the 
husband,  who  was  now  lost  to  his  world. 

"  When  he  calls  to  me  I  will  go  to  him,"  said 
Virginia. 

Letters  had  come  from  Oliver's  family — tragic 
letters  from  Mrs.  Lumley,  who  had  now  heard  of 
the  separation  between  her  son  and  his  wife.  No 
one  had  seen  a  sign  of  Oliver  since  his  father's 
funeral.  Mrs.  Lumley  wrote  bitter  words  to  her 
daughter-in-law,  and  accused  her  of  having  driven 
Oliver  to  desperation.  "  For  God's  sake,"  she 
wrote  once,  "  have  mercy  on  my  poor  boy.  I  am 
tortured  with  anxiety." 

Virginia  wrote  back  : 

"  Oliver  has  had  no  mercy  on  me.     I  also  am 
tortured.      But  I  know  him   well   enough  to  wait 


412     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

for  his  appeal.  When  he  is  really  in  want  he  will 
write  for  money  and  help.  He  has  no  strength 
of  endurance.  I  am  dreadfully  sorry  for  your  un- 
happiness,  dear  Mrs.  Lumley.  Oliver  has  made  us 
all  suffer." 

Unknown  to  Virginia,  advertisements  were  in- 
serted by  Lady  Buntingford  in  the  agony  columns 
of  The  Morning  Post. 

"  Oliver.     Come  back,  and  all  will  be  forgiven. 
Virginia  waits  for  you." 

"  Oliver.     Your  wife  is  pining  for  you.     Do  not 
delay." 

But  no  answer  came  from  Oliver.  It  did  not 
occur  to  Lady  Buntingford  that  he  might  be 
reading  T/ie  Daily  Mail  instead  of  The  Morning 
Post. 

Virginia  baffled  the  old  lady  and  uprooted  all 
her  convictions  on  love  and  married  life  and  the 
nature  of  women. 

That  she  was  fretting  herself  to  death  was 
clear  enough.  That  she  was  yearning  for  the 
home-coming  of  Oliver  was,  as  Lady  Buntingford 
said,  as  plain  as  a  pikestaff.  She  did  not  deny 
that  she  loved  him,  in  spite  of  all  his  faults,  yet 
with  a  strength  of  will  that  seemed  uncanny  in 
a  woman  so  frail  and  nervous,  she  refused  to 
forgive  him  until  he  had  atoned. 


Two  Women  413 

"  What  d'ye  mean  by  this  atonement  ?  "  cried 
Lady  Buntingford,  with  exasperation.  "  In 
Heaven's  name,  if  you  love  the  man,  hug  him  tight. 
Love !  Love !  In  my  young  days  it  meant 
obedience  to  one's  husband  and  bHndness  to  his 
faults.  What  bee  have  you  got  in  your  bonnet, 
Virginia  ?  " 

"You  do  not  understand,"  said  Virginia.  "  How 
can  I  make  you  understand  ?  It  is  because  I  love 
my  husband  as  I  have  hope  for  my  own  soul 
that  I  want  him  to  be  an  honest  man.  He  was 
careless  of  everything  so  long  as  he  lived  on 
my  money.  He  did  no  work.  The  very  fibre 
of  his  nature  was  becoming  sapped  by  this  idle  life, 
and  by  continual  shirking  of  his  moral  duty.  I 
know  he  is  weak.  It  is  only  suffering  that  can 
make  him  strong.  Oh,  I  hope  he  is  suffering  very 
much  !  " 

"  If  I  did  not  know  you  were  the  tenderest 
soul  alive  I  should  say  you  were  a  heartless 
hussy  !  " 

That  expressed  the  true  dilemma  of  Lady 
Buntingford,  who  could  find  no  key  to  these 
contradictions  between  harshness  and  tenderness, 
between  a  desire  to  punish,  and  a  desire  to  forgive, 
between  contempt  and  love. 

She  would  have  been  more  puzzled  if  she  had 
overheard  the  prayers  which  Virginia  offered  up  for 
her  husband  by  night  and  day,  on  her  knees,  with 
her  arms  outstretched  upon  the  bed. 


414     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

She  cried  out  to  God  to  have  mercy  on  Oliver 
Lumley,  yet  not  to  spare  him  chastisement. 

"  Break  up  his  selfishness.  Set  truth  in  his 
heart.  Give  him  courage  and  manhood.  Let  him 
come  out  of  the  fire  cleansed  and  brave.  Send 
him  back  to  me,  dear  Lord,  that  I  may  have  my 
life  again.  It  would  have  been  easy  for  me  to  have 
kept  him  by  my  side.  For  my  money's  sake  he 
would  have  stayed.  But  he  would  have  gone  from 
weakness  to  weakness  and  from  shame  to  shame. 
I  have  denied  myself  his  love  in  order  to  save  his 
honour.  Because  we  are  one  I  share  his  punish- 
ment Because  I  am  the  woman  it  is  harder  for 
me.  But  oh,  my  dear  God,  bring  my  boy  back 
soon,  before  we  have  suffered  beyond  our  strength." 

Such  prayers — strange,  pitiful,  imploring — went 
up  from  Virginia's  heart  during  many  hours  of  the 
day,  until  she  was  exhausted  with  emotion  and 
torn  with  agony.  But  though  Oliver  was  lost  to 
her,  though  no  word  came  from  him,  she  had  an 
absolute  conviction  that  he  would  come  back.  She 
waited  for  a  sign,  for  an  appeal,  for  Oliver's  cry  for 
forgiveness.  And  one  day  the  sign  was  given  to 
her. 

It  was  towards  the  second  month  of  his  absence, 
and  she  was  in  the  drawing-room  of  Buntingford 
House,  turning  over  some  papers  and  just  glancing 
at  their  pictures.  Suddenly  she  gave  a  cry,  for 
there  on  her  lap  was  her  husband's  name,  in  black 
type  upon  a  printed  page. 


Two  Women  415 

"THE   MAN    WHO   MEANT   WELL" 
By  Oliver  Lumley 

It  was  a  short  story,  and  she  read  it  with  burning 
eyes.  It  was  the  story  of  a  young  man  of  weak 
character,  thoroughly  amiable,  desiring  to  make 
every  one  happy  about  him,  and  conceited  with  his 
own  good-nature.  But  he  became  entangled  in  a 
mesh  of  lies,  which  had  begun  with  one  white  lie  to 
save  hurting  the  feelings  of  the  woman  he  loved. 
His  amiability  of  temperament  led  him  into  follies 
which  caused  more  grief  to  the  people  about  him 
than  if  he  had  been  deliberately  wicked.  He  was 
brought  to  the  depths  of  ruin  by  sheer  weakness  of 
character,  and  standing  alone  in  his  misery  he 
cursed  the  nature  with  which  he  had  been  born, 
and  cried  out  for  strength  to  kill  the  smiling  devil 
in  him  which  had  lured  him  over  the  precipice. 

The  story  filled  only  one  page  of  a  weekly  paper, 
but  in  a  brief  space  Oliver  had  told  the  story  of  his 
own  soul.  It  was  the  Apologia  pro  vita  sua,  and 
Virginia  read  the  words  through  a  mist  of  tears. 

"  Oh,  my  dear  husband  !  "  she  cried,  "  at  last  he 
has  seen  the  truth  ! " 

"The  truth?  What  is  truth?"  said  Lady 
Buntingford,  who  hurried  in  at  the  sound  of  her 
cry. 

"  Oliver  is  coming  back  to  me,"  said  Virginia. 
"  This  is  his  message." 


41 6     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

She  held  up  the  paper  and  laughed  in  a  strange 
way. 

"  God  has  worked  a  miracle  ! " 

"  H'm  ! "  said  Lady  Buntingford  doubtfully. 
"  I  distrust  miracles,  especially  in  a  Radical  paper. 
But  it  seems  to  have  put  some  colour  into  your 
cheeks,  my  dear." 

There  was  more  colour  in  Virginia's  cheeks 
before  the  day  was  out.  For  in  the  afternoon  she 
received  a  visitor,  against  whom  Lady  Buntingford 
did  not  lower  the  portcullis  after  a  little  preliminary 
conversation  in  the  hall. 

"  My  squirrel,"  said  the  old  woman,  "  here  is 
some  one  who  brings  a  word  from  your  husband. 
If  you  will  excuse  me  I  will  go  and  bully  my  cook, 
who  is  a  perfect  fool." 

She  had  been  followed  into  the  room  by  a  lady 
in  a  heavy  fur  motor-coat  and  blue  veil.  When 
she  put  up  her  veil  she  showed  a  pretty,  serious 
face,  with  pale  gold  hair. 

"  I  do  not  understand,"  said  Virginia,  rising 
from  her  chair.  *'  Do  you  bring  news  of  my 
husband  ? " 

"  Yes.  Lady  Buntingford  did  not  introduce 
me.  My  name  is  Katherine  Goldstein.  Perhaps 
Oliver  has  spoken  of  me.  We  were  friends.  May 
I  sit  down,  Mrs.  Lumley  ?  " 

Virginia  bowed  her  head  and  motioned  to  a  chair. 

"  Won't  you  sit  down  ?  '  said  Katherine,  taking 
the  seat.     "  It  is  so  much  easier  to  talk  like  this." 


Two  Women  417 

Virginia  sat  down  on  the  sofa. 

"  Have  you  a  message  for  me  ?  "  she  said.  Her 
face  had  gone  very  white, 

"  Yes.  I  have  motored  straight  from  town.  Of 
course  I  went  to  The  Rookery  first." 

"  The  message  ?  "  said  Virginia  quickly. 

"  I  will  give  you  his  exact  words  :  '  Tell  my  wife 
that  I  have  been  down  in  the  depths,  that  I  have 
struggled  up  again,  and  that  I  am  doing  honest 
work.'" 

"Honest  work?"  said  Virginia.  "Oh,  that  is 
good — if  it  is  true." 

"  It  is  true,"  said  Katherine.  "  He  is  on  a  news- 
paper in  Fleet  Street." 

Virginia  gave  a  long,  quivering  sigh. 

"  Did  he  say  anything  else  ?  "  she  said. 

"  Nothing  else,"  said  Katherine. 

Virginia  sat  with  her  large  eyes  staring  at  her 
visitor,  as  though  she  looked  farther  away  than 
where  Katherine  Goldstein  sat. 

Katherine  suddenly  left  her  chair,  and  went 
down  on  her  knees  by  the  side  of  Oliver  Lumley's 
wife,  and  took  her  hand. 

"  Mrs.  Lumley,  he  is  frightfully  sorry.  He  has 
suffered  most  horribly.     I  found  him  starving." 

"Did  he  go  to  you  for  help?"  said  Virginia, 
"  Did  he  ask  you  for  money  ?  " 

"  No.  I  met  him  on  the  Embankment  one  day, 
looking  so  ill.  He  was  famished  with  hunger. 
He  had  slept  the  night  in  a  free  lodging-house. 
27 


41 8     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

Yet  he  would  not  accept  my  help.  He  refused  it 
until  I  forced  it  on  him." 

Virginia  clasped  her  hands. 

"  Oh,  I  am  glad,"  she  said.  "  That  was  a  touch 
of  pride." 

"  He  is  very  proud,"  said  Katherine.  "  That  is 
why  he  is  afraid  to  come  to  you,  or  to  write  to 
you.  He  is  afraid  you  will  think  he  is  crawling 
back  for  your  money — and  not  for  your  love," 

"  Did  he  say  those  things  ?  "  asked  Virginia. 

She  seized  both  of  Katherine's  hands. 

"  You  are  telling  me  the  truth  ?  .  .  .  You  are  not 
lying  to  me  ?  .  .  .  You  do  not  look  as  if  you  lied." 

"  I  tell  you  the  truth.  Oliver  wants  your  for- 
giveness, but  he  dare  not  beg  for  it.  It  is  your 
money  which  builds  up  a  wall  between  you.  '  I 
wish  to  God,'  said  Oliver,  '  that  Virginia  were  as 
poor  as  I  am.  Then  I  could  show  her  that  I  have 
some  stuff  in  me.' " 

"Did  he  say  that?"  said  Virginia,  and  then  she 
put  her  arms  round  Katherine's  neck,  and  said, 
"  Oh,  my  dear,  you  make  me  a  very  happy  woman. 
You  bring  me  joyful  news." 

She  rose  from  her  chair,  and  said,  "  I  will  go  to 
Oliver  now.  How  soon  may  we  go?  .  .  .  I  will 
not  let  him  wait  for  my  forgiveness." 

She  walked  a  few  steps  across  the  room,  and 
then  suddenly  swayed,  and  would  have  fallen  if 
Katherine  had  not  run  forward  and  caught  her 
in  her  arms. 


CHAPTER   L 

'^he  Return 

That  evening  Katherine  sat  alone  with  Virginia, 
who  was  very  weak  after  her  fainting  attack,  but 
quite  calm  now.  The  two  women  talked  about 
Oliver,  and  Katherine  contrived  to  say  what  she 
desired  to  say,  but  what  was  very  difficult  to  say, 
to  the  wife  of  an  indiscreet  young  man. 

Virginia  held  Katherine's  hand  in  her  lap,  and 
said,  more  than  once,  "  You  have  been  very  good 
to  Oliver.     I  can  never  thank  you  enough." 

After  that  there  was  a  long  silence,  but  presently 
Katherine  said  : 

"  Oliver  is  very  young.  He  is  only  a  boy.  I 
think  you  will  have  to  deal  very  gently  with  him. 
He  wants  a  lot  of  mothering  !  " 

She  laughed,  but  her  eyes  were  serious  when 
she  looked  up  into  Virginia's  face. 

"  Yes,"  said  Virginia,  "  he  is  very  young.  I  am 
so  much  older  than  he  is.  Not  only  in  years,  but 
in  heart." 

Katherine  pressed  her  hand. 

"  I  know  that  type  of  boy  pretty  well.  His 
good  looks  and  his  gay  manners  are  continual 
temptations  to  him.     He  finds  it  so  easy  to  be 

419 


42 o     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

popular,  and  women  smile  at  him.  It  is  hard 
for  him  to  knuckle  down  to  the  duties  of  life." 

"  I  know.  Oliver  found  it  very  hard.  He 
will  be  different  now.  Please  God  he  will  be 
different." 

"  I  hope  so.  But,  you  see,  a  man  cannot  sud- 
denly jump  out  of  his  own  skin  or  change  his 
whole  nature.  Oliver  has  had  a  painful  lesson, 
but  he  is  still — Oliver." 

"  You  mean  that  he  is  still  weak  ?  Oh,  I  think 
he  will  be  stronger  !  He  has  been  put  to  the  test 
of  courage — my  poor  boy." 

"  Your  poor  boy  will  still  have  to  face  the  big 
difficulties  of  life.  And  there  are  so  many  of  them. 
I  think  he  will  want  all  your  help,  Mrs.  Lumley."- 

"  I  will  give  him  my  help,"  said  Virginia. 

"  He  is  so  restless.  His  brain  is  so  active.  And 
he  is  as  sensitive  as  an  untamed  colt.  He  jibs 
at  the  bit.  He  must  be  ridden  on  the  snaffle. 
Forgive  my  horsey  slang,  but  you  understand  ?  " 

"  You  mean  I  was  too  hard  with  him,  and  pulled 
the  reins  too  tight  ?" 

"  I  think  so,"  said  Katherine. 

"  Oh  !  "  said  Virginia  with  a  little  cry.  "  At 
first  I  was  like  putty  in  his  hands.  I  had  no 
hardness  till  he  deceived  me.  Why  did  he  break 
my  ideal  of  him  ?  " 

Katherine  spoke  with  the  air  of  a  married  woman 
of  long  standing  to  a  young  wife. 

"  Your  boy  was  not  old  enough  to  settle  down 


The   Return  42  i 

in  that  lonely  old  house  and  this  quiet  old  town. 
There  was  not  enough  to  keep  his  mind  busy. 
He  needed  the  bustle  of  a  big  town  and  all  its 
distractions.  I  can  imagine  how  quiet  it  is  in 
Windlesham  in  the  winter  months.  I  think  I 
should  go  mad,  or  do  wicked  things  myself^  if 
I  lived  here  in  the  winter.  Oliver  is  like  me  in 
that  way.  He  is  not  cut  out  for  country  life. 
He  wants  plenty  of  friends  round  him,  to  buoy  him 
up.     He  gets  the  hump  very  badly,  I  know." 

"  The  hump  ?     What  is  that  ?  "  said  Virginia. 

Katherine  laughed. 

"The  worst  disease  of  modern  life.  Boredom 
with  one's  own  soul.  Moody  thoughts  that  whisper 
like  devils  in  one's  ears.  Melancholia.  It  always 
creeps  over  a  Cockney  when  he  is  in  the  country 
after  the  summer  has  passed.  It  jumps  on  his 
back  in  the  autumn.  The  intense  silence — the 
darkness — the  smell  of  rotting  leaves — the  patter 
of  the  rain.  Oh,  for  a  young  heart — London  bred 
— that  is  all  a  danger  to  his  moral  health." 

Virginia  was  silent.  She  stared  with  big  eyes 
into  the  fire. 

"  I  do  not  understand  those  things.  But  if  they 
are  true  I  must  live  in  town  with  Oliver." 

••  You  must !  "  said  Katherine.  She  was  a  little 
excited  and  spoke  quickly.  "  It  is  absolutely 
essential  for  your  happiness.  Oliver  would  go 
to  pieces  if  he  came  back  to  that  old  house  again. 
There   is   not   enough  to  do  here.      Not  enough 


42  2     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

society.  Not  enough  work  or  pleasure.  You  must 
take  a  house  in  town.  I  will  find  one  for  you. 
I  will  give  you  heaps  of  friends.  And  Oliver  will 
make  a  career  for  himself  in  journalism.  That 
will  keep  his  brain  busy.  It  will  bring  back  his 
self-respect.  Fleet  Street  does  not  give  a  man 
too  much  spare  time.  But  he  will  come  back 
always  to  a  bright  home  in  the  heart  of  the  big 
bustle  of  life.  That  will  be  good  for  him.  That 
will  make  a  man  of  him.  Then  you  will  be  as 
happy  as  the  day  is  long.  I  assure  you  it  is  the 
best  and  the  only  plan." 

Virginia  sighed. 

"  I  shall  be  sorry  to  leave  The  Rookery  and 
the  old  garden.     But  for  Oliver's  sake " 

"  Yes,  for  Oliver's  sake  !  "  said  Katherine. 

And  in  the  secret  of  her  excited  little  heart 
she  spoke  other  words  : 

"  That  young  man  ought  to  be  very  grateful 
to  me!" 

Certainly  that  young  man  ought  to  have  been 
grateful,  for  there  was  a  smooth  path  now  between 
him  and  happiness. 

Upon  the  day  following  Katherine's  visit  he 
came  down  to  Windlesham  and  drove  over  to 
Buntingford  House. 

He  had  lost  some  of  his  old  swagger  and  gaiety. 
He  was  thinner  than  when  he  had  gone  away 
to  London  with  twenty  pounds  in  a  muddy  purse. 
Down    in    the   depths   some   of  the   conceit   had 


The  Return  423 

been  knocked  out  of  him.  He  had  come  face 
to  face  with  his  own  soul,  and  had  not  liked  the 
look  of  it. 

Yet  he  did  not  come  meekly  nor  in  a  craven 
way,  to  that  reconciliation  with  his  wife.  He 
was  very  well  dressed  in  a  suit  lent  to  him  by 
Frank  Luttrell.  He  had  a  distinguished  air,  for 
misery,  hunger,  humiliation,  rage,  and  shame  had 
taken  away  some  of  the  softness  of  his  boyish 
good  looks,  and  had  engraved  new  lines  upon 
his  face,  giving  it  a  strength  of  character. 

He  shook  hands  with  Lady  Buntingford,  and 
said  very  gravely : 

"  How  do  you  do  ?     Where  is  my  wife  ?  " 

"  Hoity-toity  !  "  cried  the  old  woman.  "  None 
of  your  airs  with  me,  young  man.  Your  wife 
has  been  next  to  death's  door,  and  I  hope  you 
have  come  back  in  a  spirit  of  humility. 

She  pinched  his  ear  and  said,  "  You  wicked 
young  dog  !     You  naughty  fellow  !  " 

Then  she  pulled  down  his  head  and  kissed 
him  on  the  cheek,  and  said,  "  I  am  a  very  glad 
old  woman  to-day." 

She  took  him  by  the  hand  and  led  him  into 
her  drawing-room  and  said,  "Virginia,  here  is 
your  runaway.  I  have  done  the  bullying,  so 
you  can  do  the  cuddling." 

Then  she  went  out  of  the  room  with  her  old 
head  shaking. 

Virginia  stood  up  and  looked  across  to  Oliver, 


424     Oliver's  Kind  Women 

who  stayed  by  the  door  stricken  with  a  sudden 
sense  of  shame,  which  sent  a  wave  of  colour 
into  his  face.  Their  eyes  lingered  in  each  other's 
gaze, 

Virginia  stretched  out  her  arms  and  came  for- 
ward a  step  or  two. 

"  Oliver.  .  .  .  Oh,  my  dear  husband  ! " 

He  strode  forward  and  put  his  arms  about  her 
and  kissed  her  on  the  lips. 

"  Virginia,  my  poor  wife !     Forgive  me." 

That  was  not  what  he  had  meant  to  say.  All 
the  way  from  town  he  had  been  rehearsing  his 
speech  to  his  wife.  He  had  meant  to  say — 
"  You  have  caused  me  two  months  of  torture. 
You  degraded  me  and  humiliated  me.  You  were 
damnably  cruel  to  me.  .  .  .  But  I  forgive  you 
because  you  did  not  understand." 

He  was  to  have  done  the  forgiving.  He  was  to  be 
magnanimous  and  gracious.  But  now,  his  wife's 
white  face,  the  look  of  yearning  in  her  eyes,  the 
agony  that  had  left  its  marks  upon  her,  melted 
him,  and  shamed  him.  Her  tears  moistened  his 
face  as  he  kissed  her,  and  the  words  she  whispered,  as 
she  drooped  her  head  upon  his  shoulder,  broke 
up  all  the  pride  in  his  heart. 

"  Oliver,  I  want  you.  I  want  the  father  of  the 
child  that  is  coming  quite  soon  now.  Dear  heart, 
let  us  love  each  other  very  much." 

The  rest  of  Oliver  Lumley's  story  cannot   be 


The^Return  4^5-^ 


written,  for  it  is  still  to  be  lived.  He  is  doing 
fairly  well  in  journalism  and  is  the  author  of 
serial  stories  in  Tlie  Magazme  of  Rom'ance,  which 
are  read  by  all  the  nursery-maids.  He  has  a 
house  at  Rutland  Gate  and  gives  pleasant  little 
dinner-parties,  when  he  wears  a  velvet  jacket.  He 
is  somewhat  of  an  authority  on  life  in  the  under- 
world, and  is  scheming  out  a  book  on  "  Human 
Derelicts."  Virginia  is  happy  as  the  mother  of  a 
small  babe,  and  she  only  frets  in  secret  when 
Oliver  stays  late  at  the  Wastrel  Club,  where  he 
is  very  popular.  Oliver  has  a  comfortable  sense 
of  self-satisfaction,  and  is  in  a  good  temper  with 
himself  and  life.  That  makes  him  a  pleasant 
companion  wherever  one  may  meet  him  in  the 
town. 


THE   END 


CALlr 


9 


PRINTED    BY 

HAZKI.L,   WATSON    AND   VINEY,   LD. 

LONDON   AND    AVLESBITRY. 


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